SUITCASE

Hi friends,

My name is Deva.

I’m a slim guy with a fair complexion, always preferring a clean-shaven look and keeping my hair slightly longer than the usual length.. Two years ago, I married Raji, The daughter of my late mother’s close friend Lakshmi.

I lost my parents when I was in intermediate. After that, none of my relatives stepped up to take care of me. It was Lakshmi aunty, Raji’s mother, who gave me shelter and treated me like her own child. Over time, I began seeing her as a mother figure and followed every word she said without question.

She made sure Raji and I studied at the same college. Eventually, we both got placed in different MNCs. Raji wanted to work, but aunty was very traditional and initially refused. After much pleading, aunty agreed, but with a surprising condition: we had to get married.

That decision came as a shock to both of us. Until then, we had lived like close friends, sharing everything and knowing each other inside out. There had never been any romantic feelings between us—just a deep sense of comfort in each other’s presence. But out of respect for aunty, and the bond we shared with her, we accepted her condition and got married.

Life After Marriage

Aunty agreed to move Hyderabad after the wedding. We rented a flat and settled in. Once everything was in place, we both began our professional lives as software engineers, working at different companies but in the same city.

Fortunately, we were later given the option to work from home. That brought us even closer—not as a couple, but as two cooperative roommates. We began sharing all household responsibilities. Cooking, cleaning, setting up the home, we did everything together.

To the outside world, we were husband and wife. But inside our home, we were still just two friends living under the same roof. An interesting coincidence was that we were both of the same size, which created a unique dynamic between us.

Raji had a modern personality and a unique style. She had a huge collection of skirts, tops, western wear, and also traditional outfits like sarees. She had one funny habit, whenever she felt like it, she would wear my shirts at home. And honestly, she carried them off effortlessly.

At home, she preferred modern dresses for comfort. But whenever we went out or she had an office meeting, she wore sarees, looking graceful and elegant

Weekends Together

Every Saturday and Sunday were holidays for both of us. We made it a ritual to go out together—exploring restaurants, watching movies, shopping, or simply roaming the city. Financially, we were comfortable, as both of us had stable jobs. In short, we were living a life that was unusual for a married couple, no emotional intimacy or physical bond, but plenty of friendship, respect, and companionship. It was like a peaceful, balanced partnership built not on romance, but on mutual understanding.

It was our second wedding anniversary

But in our hearts, we still couldn't truly accept the fact that we were husband and wife. We continued to live as friends under one roof, sharing our lives but keeping a respectful emotional distance.

Although we worked from home most of the time, occasionally we had to visit the office or attend client meetings. One day, Raji dropped a bomb on me, she had to go to Delhi for a month for a long client project.

I was stunned.

"A month?!" I asked, almost panicking.
“The last time it was just 10 days, and even then, the flat felt empty without you,” I confessed. “Now a whole month?”

She smiled gently and said, “Don’t worry. I’ve already called mom and explained everything.”

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed. It was Lakshmi aunty. Her voice was calm but firm, the way it always was when she made a decision.

“Deva, come to the village for a month. You shouldn’t stay alone. I’ll feel better if you’re here.”

And just like that, it was settled.

A New Setting: The Village

Lakshmi aunty lived in a village near Kakinada, managing our ancestral fields. The place was surrounded by greenery, birdsong, and peace. It was the kind of environment that soothed the soul but also made you wonder what to do with all that quiet—especially for someone like me, whose only close friend was now heading to Delhi.

I tried to convince them, both Raji and aunty, to let me stay back. But they wouldn't listen.

As Raji started packing her things, she opened another trolley, mine. It was identical to hers in brand, color, and design. We had bought those matching trolleys during a trip that the world called our honeymoon, but for us, it was just a fun friends’ getaway.

She carefully folded my clothes and started placing them inside, one by one.

“Don’t forget your charger and headphones,” she said casually, as if this was our normal routine. I stood there watching her. There was something in that moment—comfort, familiarity, maybe even a little sadness. But I couldn’t name it.

Raji had planned everything perfectly—almost too perfectly. She had even booked my flight ticket to Rajahmundry without letting me argue further. Interestingly, both our flights were from the same airport, just 30 minutes apart. Hers was scheduled first, followed by mine.

That morning, we both packed up and called a cab to the airport. The ride was quiet, filled with an unspoken silence. Maybe because we knew we’d be apart for a while or maybe because we didn’t know what we truly meant to each other yet.

At the airport, I gave her a warm send-off. She smiled, adjusted her bag, and said, “Call me once you land.”

I nodded. “Only if you promise to not skip your meals.”

She smiled and walked off, disappearing into the security check queue.

Arrival at Rajahmundry

After she left, I boarded my flight. It was a short one a little over an hour. I landed at Rajahmundry Airport, booked a taxi, and headed to the village. As soon as I reached home, Aunty was already waiting at the doorstep.

“Welcome, Deva,” she said, giving me a gentle smile. “Go freshen up. I’ve made your favorite lunch.”

I greeted her respectfully and went to my room.

But the moment I opened my luggage, my entire mood shifted into confusion and disbelief. The bag was filled with Raji’s clothes—sarees, blouses, nightdresses, and even her innerwear.

I stood frozen for a second, blinking, not knowing whether to laugh, panic, or just throw myself onto the bed and sleep it off.

Just then, Aunty walked in.

“Why haven’t you come out yet? I told you to freshen up,” she said, noticing my startled expression.

Without a word, I pointed to the open suitcase.

She walked over, looked inside—and then burst into laughter.

“Deva! Why on earth did you bring Raji’s bag?”

“I think... she took mine and I picked up hers,” I replied, scratching my head, half-embarrassed.

Aunty shook her head, still smiling. “It’s okay. Some of your clothes are still here. Check the wardrobe.”

She walked across the room and opened the wardrobe door.

Screech.

Before we could even peek inside, a rat jumped out and scurried across the room.

We both jumped back, startled. Aunty clutched her chest. “Ayyo! This rat has been staying like a guest in this house longer than you!”

I burst out laughing, breaking the tension.

“Great! Now even the rats are using the wardrobe more than me,” I joked.

Aunty’s smile faded suddenly and turned into a thoughtful, serious look. I noticed the change and asked quietly,

“What should we do now?”

She looked at me for a moment, then said plainly,
“There’s nothing to do now. Just take one of Raji’s nightdresses and wear it for tonight.”

I blinked. “What? No way! That’s girls' clothing!”

Aunty sighed and sat down beside me.

“Deva,” she said softly but firmly, “there’s no rule written anywhere that says these are only for girls and those are only for boys. Clothes are for comfort. That’s all.”

I still didn’t feel convinced. But before I could argue again, she walked to the suitcase, picked out a soft kurti and matching pants, and handed them to me. She also passed me a matching pantie.

I hesitated.

“Go,” she said. “Just for tonight. No one’s going to judge you here—not even me.”

After a long moment, I finally gave in. I changed into the kurti and pants in the bathroom. The kurti felt surprisingly normal—like one of my own loose kurtas—but the pantie felt strange and uncomfortable. It wasn’t tight, but it was... different.

When I came out, Aunty looked at me for a second, gave a small nod, and didn’t say a word. We had dinner quietly. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was calm, almost like she was giving me space to adjust.

Just as we finished our meal, my phone buzzed. It was a video call from Raji.

I answered, and her face lit up the screen. She grinned the moment she saw me.

“Deva! Our languages changed,” she teased, speaking in our own playful tone—a language only we understood.

Aunty, sitting beside me, was biting her lip to hide her smile.

I laughed nervously and tried to tilt the camera so she wouldn’t see my outfit.
But of course, she noticed.

Her eyes widened in playful disbelief.
“So… you took my bag, and now you’re wearing my kurti?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” I muttered.

She giggled. “Well, I’m managing with your clothes here. But you’ll have to go shopping tomorrow. Unless,” she paused with a smirk, “or you want to continue trying out my wardrobe.”

Aunty chuckled softly next to me, and I knew from her expression—this was just the beginning of something much deeper and more layered than I had ever imagined.

We chatted for a little while longer on the call. Just as I was about to bring up shopping for new clothes, Raji looked at me with that same casual, mischievous expression.

“Why waste money on buying new clothes, Deva?” she said. “You can just wear mine. Anyway, they fit you perfectly.”

I laughed awkwardly, still feeling unsure. “I was thinking of buying at least two pairs of basic clothes—this doesn’t feel right.”

But then she began to plead softly, her tone light but affectionate. “Please, Deva... just manage for a while. You know how village shopping is—you won’t get anything nice. Besides, we already packed so much, and you’ve got half of it right there.”

I sighed. Truth be told, I didn’t have much cash on me, and the nearest proper store was at least a three hour away. Eventually, I gave in.
“Fine. Only because I don’t have money in my wallet.”

She grinned. “That’s my Deva.”

After the call, I went over to her wardrobe to see what I could find. The moment I opened the door—

Thud!

A rat jumped out again and disappeared behind the cupboard.

“Oh no, not again!” I muttered in disbelief.

I started going through her dresses to see what could be salvaged, but most of them were damaged. Chewed sleeves, shredded hems, tiny holes here and there. The rats had had a feast in her wardrobe.

Just then, Aunty walked into the room.

She saw me crouched over the wardrobe, holding up a half-ruined kurti.

“Aunty, we seriously need to call pest control,” I said, frustrated. “These rats are everywhere!”

She came closer, checked the wardrobe, and nodded.
“You’re right. This isn’t just one rat—it’s a full family. I’ll call the local rat control department tomorrow morning.”

That night, we sat for a while, chatting as usual—talking about village life, city chaos, our routines, and how much things had changed. It felt strange yet comforting.

After some time, the house grew quiet, and we both went off to sleep in our rooms.

The next morning, after my bath, I stepped out of the bathroom wiping my face, only to see Aunty standing in my room with a small bundle of clothes in her hands.

I greeted her, “Good morning, Aunty.”

She smiled warmly. “Good morning, Deva. I brought something for you to wear.”

Curious and hopeful, I reached for the clothes. But as I unfolded them, my heart skipped a beat—it was one of Raji’s sarees, neatly paired with a matching blouse and underskirt.

My face stiffened. “Aunty… I-I don’t think I can wear this. Please, if there’s any kurta or even a top and skirt like what I wore the other night, I’ll wear that. Wearing a saree feels like… crossing a line.”

Her gentle expression shifted—calm, but firm.

“Deva, those tops and skirts you wore are only nightwear. No woman here wears that during the day,” she said plainly. “And you know me—I’m traditional. We live in a village. Saree is the only proper dress to wear in the daytime.”

I looked at the folded fabric in my hands, struggling to find words. She saw my hesitation and added softly, “Your clothes are ruined. We don’t keep men's clothes here anymore since your father-in-law passed. And Raji’s old clothes—these are all that’s clean and wearable right now.”

I glanced toward the door, as if an escape would magically appear.

But Aunty walked up and placed a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve always respected me like a mother, haven’t you?”

I nodded and I was just staring at the folded saree in my hands.

“Then trust me once more. “You don’t have to be ashamed. You both have the same size, and it’s just cloth. There is no shame in cloth. Only in how we treat each other. No one is going to judge you here, Deva. It’s just me. And you need to wear something while your own clothes are being handled.”

Still, I looked into Aunty’s eyes. They weren’t mocking. They were just... kind. Firm, but caring. Like a mother asking her child to trust her.

I stood there for a long moment, holding the folded saree in my hands. Something about the weight of the fabric felt heavier than just cloth—it felt like a decision. But Aunty’s gaze was calm, unwavering. There was no ridicule, no pressure—just quiet expectation.

So, I nodded.

She handed me a fresh pantie and asked me to change in the bathroom. My hands trembled slightly as I took it, not entirely sure how I felt, but I did as she said. When I stepped out, she was waiting with a bra in her hands. I froze for a moment. “I can’t…” I whispered, uncertain, shy, and overwhelmed. But she simply looked at me with the same caring but determined eyes and gently said, “You can. Trust me.”

Before I could object again, she helped me into the bra, stuffing it with some cloth to give shape. I felt a strange mix of discomfort and curiosity as she adjusted it carefully, making sure it sat right. Then came the blouse—soft, snug, and unfamiliar against my skin—and the petticoat, tied firmly around my waist.

And then, with practiced hands and a grace I always admired in her, she picked up the saree. I watched silently as she pleated it, tucked it in, wrapped it around me like a long, flowing secret. When she pinned the pallu on my shoulder, I felt transformed—wrapped not just in six yards of fabric, but in something deeper… something intimate, emotional.

It was the first time I wore a saree. And it was Aunty who made it happen and Aunty didn’t make it feel like a punishment—she treated it like something completely normal, almost like she was gently guiding her own daughter to wear a saree for the first time.

Her hands were practiced, firm but kind, and I could feel the fabric wrap around me, slowly transforming something inside I couldn’t yet explain. But it didn’t stop there.

Just as I thought we were finished, Aunty walked near Raji’s cupboard and returned with a small velvet box.

“Now stay still,” she said.

“Aunty, what are you __” I began, but she was already slipping six glass bangles onto each of my wrists, their soft clinks echoing through the quiet room.

I stared at my hands. “Aunty, this isn’t necessary. The saree is already too much to take”

But she wasn’t listening.

Next came silver anklets, which she gently fastened around my feet. They felt cool and strange against my skin. Then, from a smaller box, she took out a pair of small golden jhumkas and clipped them onto my already pierced ears.

“Aunty, please… this is going too far,” I protested softly, stepping back.

She just shook her head, her tone patient but unwavering. “Wearing a saree is incomplete without proper accessories. This is how it’s meant to be, Devika. You may not like it now, but this is the tradition here.”

I opened my mouth to say more, but before I could, she was already placing a thin gold chain around my neck, applying a light layer of compact and kajal, brushing my hair into a soft, traditional style.

Finally, she took a small red bindi and placed it gently at the center of my forehead.

I looked into the mirror, breath catching in my throat. The reflection staring back didn’t feel like me. But it didn’t feel like a stranger either.

I had resisted her at first—every step of the way—but she did everything without waiting for my permission, as though she had already decided I needed this… even if I didn’t know it yet.

That day, she didn’t make me do any housework—I just focused on my office tasks. But even while typing on my laptop, I felt uneasy at the sound of the bangles clinking with every keystroke.

Every time my wrists moved, they chimed softly, reminding me of everything I was wearing—the saree brushing against my legs, the weight of the chain around my neck, the tickle of the anklets as I shifted in my chair. Even the subtle pull of the jhumkas on my ears felt alien. I kept glancing at the mirror on the almirah nearby, hoping to find some trace of the old Deva in the reflection—but all I could see was Devika, sitting with poise, typing on a laptop in a soft pastel saree, bangles flashing gently in the light.

I didn’t know whether to feel trapped… or curious. The rest of the day passed in a strange stillness. I remained at my desk, immersed in office work, trying to ignore the soft clinking of bangles every time I typed or moved my hands. The unfamiliar feel of the saree draped around me made even the simplest movements feel foreign.

That night, after dinner, Aunty handed me a skirt and a floral top. “Wear this for sleeping,” she said, her tone casual.

I gave her a questioning look but didn’t argue. She then added gently, “While changing, remove your bra… and don’t forget to take off your bangles before you sleep. You’ll sleep better.”

I followed her instructions quietly, changing into the nightwear. The clothes felt light and slightly more familiar than the saree, but the softness of the fabric against my skin still made me feel... different.

The next morning, much like the previous one, Aunty was already waiting in my room—this time holding a different saree, folded and fresh.

“Today, I won’t ask,” she said firmly. “You must wear this. It’s your routine now.”

I hesitated, but the look in her eyes left no room for debate. I started changing slowly, beginning with the innerwear, then the blouse, and the petticoat. Aunty came over to adjust the tightness of the knot at my waist, making sure it held securely.

Then came the saree. I tried to drape it myself, but I fumbled—again and again. Aunty patiently corrected me each time, showing how to pleat the fabric, how to tuck it neatly, how to let the pallu fall gracefully. It took nearly half an hour, but by the end, I was finally draped—properly, this time.

She handed me a fresh set of matching bangles and applied light makeup just like the previous day, explaining each step as she went. Then she took a comb and divided my hair neatly, braiding it with calm precision. I was distracted, until the scent of jasmine reached my nose. I touched my hair, confused, and realised she had pinned a garland into my braid.

“Aunty…” I began.

But she gently held my hand. “It suits you. Leave it. It’s common here.”

I sighed but gave in. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel as awkward as I had the day before.

Back at my desk, I continued my work. The clinking bangles and sway of the saree still distracted me now and then, but it was slightly easier to focus. Maybe I was getting used to it.

After finishing the day’s work, I went to the kitchen to help Aunty—just like I used to with Raji. She was preparing curry for lunch.

“There’s nothing left to prep,” she said with a smile. “So today, you cook.”

I hesitated, but under her guidance, I began. The saree felt restrictive, especially when I tried to move quickly or bend. Aunty noticed and came beside me.

“Don’t rush. Take smaller steps. Keep your pallu tucked in properly. Watch—like this,” she demonstrated with practiced grace.

Her tips actually worked, and soon I found myself moving more comfortably. It made me feel unexpectedly content.

When lunch was ready, we carried the dishes to the dining table. As I was about to sit, Aunty stopped me.

“No, no—not like that. Sit properly in a saree,” she said.

She adjusted the pallu over my lap and told me to straighten my back and sit gracefully. I followed her directions. It felt strange… but oddly dignified.

Later, I returned to my work desk. As I sat down, I automatically remembered what Aunty had taught me and adjusted my saree before sitting. Then, I answered my call.

Thankfully, our company only used voice calls and screen sharing—no video. I was relieved. None of my colleagues could see me like this. I could still speak with confidence and do my work without revealing the saree, the jasmine, or the bangles softly singing at my wrist.

Lakshmi Aunty had started treating me more and more like her daughter, gently involving me in household chores whenever I had free time. That evening, while she was heading to the kitchen to prepare dinner, I was watching TV—but nothing interesting was on. Seeing me idle, she called out, “Come, help me in the kitchen.”

With nothing else to do, I joined her. Like before, under her guidance, I began assisting her. She showed me how to manage tasks gracefully even while wearing a saree, giving me subtle tips along the way—how to turn without letting the pleats get tangled, how to move with ease, and how to adjust the pallu when it slipped or got caught. Every now and then, she would point out if the drape at the chest shifted or if my bra strap was visible, and she'd remind me to fix it like it was second nature.

I was slowly getting used to all of it.

She was treating me like a girl I never thought I could be—but still, I obeyed her out of respect. After dinner, instead of the top and skrit, I chose a kurta and its matching pant from the suitcase to wear for that night. At least in those moments, I felt a little more like myself… whoever that was anymore.

After freshening up, I returned to my room and immediately noticed a neatly folded saree on the bed, along with all its matching accessories. Aunty was busy in the kitchen. I hesitated for a moment, then decided to go ahead—partly out of respect for her and partly because I had started to accept the routine.

First, I wore the pantie. Then came the bra, which was always a little tricky—I struggled a bit hooking it at the back. Following Aunty’s advice, I stuffed it with soft cloth to give it shape. The blouse was easier; thankfully, it had front hooks. As I tied the petticoat, I recalled Aunty’s instruction: “Tie it tight, or the saree may come loose at any time.”

Then came the real challenge—the saree itself. I unfolded it carefully and began draping it around me. It took me nearly ten minutes to get everything in place. Just as I tucked the final pleat in, I heard a voice behind me:

"Well done, Devika."

It was Aunty.

Startled, I turned around and asked when she had come in.

“I came when you were unfolding the saree,” she replied with a gentle smile. “Honestly, I thought you’d call me for help. But you didn’t—and look at you! You’ve learned faster than I expected. Raji took almost a month.”

I smiled shyly. Aunty walked over and corrected a few pleats and adjusted the pallu. Then she handed me matching bangles and began applying light makeup. As she worked on my hair, she said nothing—just humming softly while braiding and pinning it neatly.

I resumed my office work afterward, and to my surprise, I wasn’t as distracted as before. I was slowly getting used to the feel of bangles, the swish of fabric, and even the jasmine scent in my hair.

Later that afternoon, Aunty asked me to wash the utensils. In the evening, she handed me the dry clothes from the line, and we folded them together. She patiently showed me how to fold each item properly, just like she would teach a daughter.

That night, I changed into a kurta and matching pants and went to bed.

Days began to pass like that. I could now drape the saree on my own in just two minutes. Aunty even taught me to do basic makeup that I applied each morning after getting dressed. After breakfast, she would braid my hair and I’d begin my office work. During breaks or in the evenings, she trained me in cooking and assigned small household tasks.

Gradually, I learned all the recipes and chores she said a girl should know before leaving for her in-laws’ home—as if preparing me for a role I never imagined I'd step into.

Next day Morining, When i came out after freshening up, I returned to my room and immediately noticed a neatly folded saree on the bed, along with all its matching accessories. Aunty was busy in the kitchen. I hesitated for a moment, then decided to go ahead—partly out of respect for her and partly because I had started to accept the routine.

First, I wore the pantie. Then came the bra, which was always a little tricky—I struggled a bit hooking it at the back. Following Aunty’s advice, I stuffed it with soft cloth to give it shape. The blouse was easier; thankfully, it had front hooks. As I tied the petticoat, I recalled Aunty’s instruction: “Tie it tight, or the saree may come loose at any time.”

Then came the real challenge—the saree itself. I unfolded it carefully and began draping it around me. It took me nearly ten minutes to get everything in place. Just as I tucked the final pleat in, I heard a voice behind me:

"Well done, Devika."

It was Aunty.

Startled, I turned around and asked when she had come in.

“I came when you were unfolding the saree,” she replied with a gentle smile. “Honestly, I thought you’d call me for help. But you didn’t—and look at you! You’ve learned faster than I expected. Raji took almost a month.”

I smiled shyly. Aunty walked over and corrected a few pleats and adjusted the pallu. Then she handed me matching bangles and began applying light makeup. As she worked on my hair, she said nothing—just humming softly while braiding and pinning it neatly.

I resumed my office work afterward, and to my surprise, I wasn’t as distracted as before. I was slowly getting used to the feel of bangles, the swish of fabric, and even the jasmine scent in my hair.

Later that afternoon, Aunty asked me to wash the utensils. In the evening, she handed me the dry clothes from the line, and we folded them together. She patiently showed me how to fold each item properly, just like she would teach a daughter.

That night, I changed into a kurta and matching pants and went to bed.

Days began to pass like that. I could now drape the saree on my own in just two minutes. Aunty even taught me to do basic makeup that I applied each morning after getting dressed. After breakfast, she would braid my hair and I’d begin my office work.

During breaks or in the evenings, She trained me patiently: how to sweep, how to mop, how to wash clothes, fold them neatly, cook meals, knead dough, chop vegetables without bruising them, and season food the way she liked it.

Every task came with a correction, every correction with a smile. Slowly, the clumsy boy in borrowed clothes became a quiet, efficient housekeeper. Gradually, I learned all the recipes and chores

“You’re becoming more like a daughter to me,” Aunty once said, her eyes soft with affection.
She spoke those words after I had expertly draped a simple cotton saree, just the way she had taught me, and served her lunch—cooked entirely by me, without a hint of her guidance. The timing was perfect, the flavours just right, and her smile told me I had done something more than just prepare a meal. I had made her proud.

I didn’t reply. I just smiled faintly.

A month passed like this.

One evening, just before sunset, I heard a familiar voice came from the gate.

Raji had returned—who is my wife in the eyes of Lakshmi Aunty and the outside world

I rushed out to greet her—dressed in one of her soft lavender sarees. The pallu fluttered slightly in the breeze as I stepped forward. My anklets chimed with a soft chim-chim at every step. My wrists jingled with twelve delicate bangles, and the large earrings she once wore swayed gently from my ears. A small bindi sat perfectly on my forehead. A soft pink nail polish shimmered on my fingertips. My hair was neatly braided and adorned with a fragrant garland of jasmine.

She stood at the doorstep, frozen, staring at me in disbelief. Her eyes scanned every detail—from the saree to the flowers in my hair—trying to process what she was seeing.

She stared at me—then looked at Aunty—then back at me again.
"D-Deva?" she whispered, almost uncertain.

I didn’t know what to say at first. I just stood there, the silence hanging between us, filled with all the days and changes that had passed while she was away.

By seeing me, Aunty nodded proudly. “She’s Devika now. Look what a fine girl she’s turned out to be.”

I looked down, heart racing, unsure of how Raji would react.

But instead of laughing or mocking, walked slowly toward me. After a moment of scanning me from head to toe, Without saying a word, she gently wrapped her arms around me in a warm hug. I stood frozen, unsure of what she was feeling. Then she whispered softly into my ear,

"You are looking beautiful… so beautiful that I can't even express it in words."

She pulled back slightly, looked into my eyes with a faint smile, and added,
"If you want to continue wearing sarees daily, I have no objections."

I noticed in her eyes something had changed in her eyes. Not confusion. Not surprise. Something deeper. Warmer.

I could sense something shifting in Raji after she saw me in a saree. Her expression, her words—they carried a softness I hadn't seen before. It was Sunday, a week off for all of us, so the three of us sat together on the sofa, casually chatting about her trip.

As we talked, I noticed Raji stealing glances at me—quietly observing me. Each time her eyes lingered a bit too long, I felt a little uneasy, unsure of what was going through her mind.

After a while, Aunty smiled and said, “Deva, go start the lunch prep, ma. I’ll catch up more with Raji, it's been a long month.”

Without a word, I walked into the kitchen. While preparing the dishes, I couldn’t help but think: Here I am, a man, dressed in a saree, cooking like a housewife… while those two ladies—my wife and her mother—are relaxing and chatting in the living room.

Oddly enough, I didn’t feel ashamed. I had done it many times by now—and I had made sure I did well. I finished all the cooking, arranged the dishes neatly on the dining table, and called them for lunch.

As they came, I served them quietly, and once they finished eating, I had my own meal. Then I cleaned the table, wiped everything down, and tidied up the kitchen.

When I came back to the hall, Aunty was watching a movie on TV. I looked around and asked, “Where’s Raji?”

“She was feeling tired after the journey, so she went to take a nap,” Aunty replied casually.

I nodded and went on with my chores—sweeping, dusting, and folding the clothes from the line. In the evening, just as we were starting dinner prep, Aunty called Raji to wake her up.

Soon, Raji came out, freshly bathed and relaxed, wearing my T-shirt and track pants—the same ones I used to wear before my wardrobe took a turn.

Raji turned on the TV and began watching a movie, curling up comfortably on the sofa in my old T-shirt and track pants. Aunty, just about to step out, looked at her daughter and then at me.

"I'm going out to check on something nearby," she said casually, but then she paused and added in a lower tone to Raji, “You handle things here.”

Raji gave a quick nod, and Aunty turned to me. I gave her a small smile and a reassuring glance as if to say, I’ve got this. She left without another word.

I returned to the kitchen and quietly continued preparing dinner. Like I had done during lunch, I took care of every detail—from the seasoning to the side dishes. Once everything was ready, I arranged the food neatly and called them to the dining table.

Just like earlier, I served them first. Raji didn’t speak much during dinner, but her eyes followed me now and then—gentle, curious. I could feel her gaze, but I didn’t look back. I had grown used to focusing on my duties, like a proper homemaker.

After they finished eating, I sat down for my meal. The clinking of my bangles echoed faintly as I lifted the spoon, my saree pleats neatly arranged, pallu draped properly—just the way Aunty had taught me.

When I was done, I cleaned the dining table and then the kitchen. I washed the utensils, wiped down the counters, and ensured everything was in order. As I rinsed the final plate, I looked up and noticed Raji standing silently at the kitchen door, watching me.

When I noticed Raji standing at the kitchen door, I asked gently, “What are you doing here? Do you need something?”

With a soft smile, she replied, “Yes... a glass of boiled milk.” Then she turned and walked away, leaving her words lingering in the air.

I quickly boiled the milk, poured it into a glass, and carried it to our room. The moment felt strangely surreal—like a newly wedded bride walking into her honeymoon suite, holding that symbolic glass of milk. My bangles clinked softly with each step, the rustle of my saree felt amplified in the quiet corridor. I bowed slightly, embarrassed to meet Raji’s eyes, and handed her the glass.

While she drank silently, I walked to the wardrobe, filled with an array of sarees, skirts and tops, kurtis, and matching accessories—most of them hers, some gifted by Aunty. I picked a soft cotton kurti and its matching pant and went to the bathroom to freshen up. When I came out, dressed modestly and neatly, Raji looked at me and smiled. I returned her smile, shyly, and we settled into bed for the night.

But that night, sleep never came. My thoughts swirled endlessly—Am I still Deva? Or have I already become Devika? What would people say if they saw me like this? Would they laugh? Would they insult me? In my mind, their imaginary voices pierced deeper than I ever expected. I feared ridicule, isolation. I even imagined scenarios so painful... I shivered under the blanket.

The next morning, I stood near the wardrobe, frozen, unsure what to wear. My fingers hovered between a kurta and a saree. At that moment, Raji sat up on the bed, looking at me with quiet understanding.

“I know what you're thinking,” she said gently. “Wear the saree. I’ve been watching you since I came back—you’re more at ease in it than out of it. You work, move, and even sleep in it. And when I returned, you didn’t even bother to change out of it, not even at night. That says something.”

Hearing her words, tears welled up in my eyes. She immediately got up and embraced me.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, brushing my tears.

“I… I don’t know why,” I said, voice trembling, “but I feel more myself in a saree than in my old clothes. I’ve fallen in love with the way it hugs my body... it feels like second skin. But... how can I face the world like this? People will talk, mock, humiliate... I’m scared, Raji.”

She cupped my face in her hands. “Let them say what they want. They aren’t part of your life. I am. And I will always stand with you. You be who you are.”

I felt the weight of her acceptance settle gently on my shoulders, easing years of unspoken confusion and guilt.

Without another word, she went to the wardrobe and returned with a bright yellow silk saree and its matching blouse and petticoat. I took it from her hands, my heart full. She sat back on the bed as I hesitated.

“Raji… can you… can you step out while I change?” I asked softly.

She nodded and left the room. Alone, I slipped into the saree—each fold, each pleat forming more naturally now. I paid extra attention to my makeup, and when I looked into the mirror, I saw Devika—confident, composed, and radiant.

When I stepped into the living room, Raji looked at me with admiration. She stood up, came close, hugged me, and planted a soft kiss on my forehead. I felt something shift again—something warmer, deeper.

Just then, Aunty walked out, and the moment passed. We both smiled casually and moved on.

That Monday, I continued my office work, dressed in the silk saree. Raji, in a simpler saree, joined after breakfast. In our free time, we both helped Aunty—but truthfully, it was me who did most of the housework, happily. Aunty watched me with quiet pride, treating me just like her own daughter.

Days passed like that, filled with laughter, learning, and acceptance. At the end of the week, we decided it was time to return to Hyderabad. Aunty organized a small farewell for us, gifting each of us two new matching sarees.

As I hugged her before leaving, she held me tightly. “Come back when you can, Devika. And never forget me.”

With misty eyes and a heart full of gratitude, I whispered, “Never, Aunty. Thank you for everything.”

Raji began packing all our things for the move to Hyderabad. Most of the suitcase was filled with sarees, kurtis, and accessories. My old clothes—Deva’s clothes—were left behind, except for a single pair of shirt and pant. Aunty had lovingly added even more sarees—especially for me. Each one carefully folded, matched with a blouse and petticoat. She said, “These will look lovely on you, Devika.” That warmth... it filled something in me I didn’t even realize had been empty.

We boarded our train at Samalkot Junction. Raji had booked a first-class AC cabin, just for the two of us. It felt private, comfortable—yet my heart thudded louder than the train wheels. I was wearing a light peach chiffon saree with subtle embroidery and a matching blouse. Raji was watching me silently since we left home.

When I finally asked, “Why are you staring like that?”, she smiled and said, “Nothing… I’m just seeing how confidently you stepped out in a saree. I thought you might feel nervous.”

That’s when it hit me. I had walked out, in broad daylight, from the house to the station, boarded a train—all in a saree, without any fear. I was living as Devika, naturally. Seamlessly. And no one seemed to doubt it. Raji added gently, “See? No one looked twice at you. Everyone thought you were just another woman in a saree.”

Her words gave me a fresh kind of strength. That night, we talked a lot. I opened up about how it all started—wearing her clothes for the first time, the confusion, the fear, the unexpected joy. Somewhere in between, we stopped talking and lay in silence.

Raji then got up and changed into Deva’s t-shirt and pant—the one pair she kept just for the journey. I shyly told her to change in the washroom, but she laughed, “Why? There’s no man here to see me.” I smiled, knowing she was teasing, and closed my eyes.

She turned to me and said, “If you want to change into something comfortable, you can.”
But I replied softly, “I’m fine.” And I was.

We reached Hyderabad early in the morning and booked a cab to our flat. Throughout the ride, I noticed the cab driver glancing at me through the rearview mirror. As we got out, he said, “Madam, you’re very beautiful. I’ve never seen anyone in this city carry a saree like you do.”

Blushing, I quickly said thank you and rushed into the house with our luggage. Raji paid the fare, came in, and immediately started teasing me about the compliment. I tried to brush it off, but deep inside, I felt happy.

Once inside, I freshened up first and wore another saree from my collection. As I was tying the final pleat in the kitchen mirror, Raji walked in, freshly bathed. She walked up behind me, wrapped her arms around my waist, shifted my braid to the side, and kissed my cheek. I froze, then smiled shyly. Without realizing it, I began leaning into her touch like a devoted wife. But when I caught myself, I gently pushed her away.

We had a quiet breakfast. She didn’t say much, nor did I. There was something unspoken settling between us. A new kind of understanding.

Our week went by in a beautiful rhythm. I did the majority of the housework—cooking, cleaning, organizing—while managing my office work. Raji helped now and then, but I took pride in managing everything. Aunty’s training had made me efficient, and somewhere inside, I began enjoying it—not as a burden, but as a role I had grown into.

On Saturday morning, Raji looked at me and said, “We need to go shopping.”

“For what?” I asked, surprised.

“Groceries… and also, we can share sarees, kurtis, and everything else. But not innerwear. You need your own.”

I was still in a saree and instinctively stood up to go change, but she stopped me.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To change into shirt and pant.”

“No need. You’ve passed in public wearing saree without a hint of doubt. You’ll be fine.”

She took the car keys and gently guided me out. My heart was nervous at first, but her words kept me steady.

First, we went to the vegetable market, then the supermarket. Everywhere we went, no one gave me a second glance. I was just another woman shopping with her partner. Next, we stopped at a shopping mall. Without hesitation, she took me straight to the ladies’ section. I selected a few new sarees, a lehenga choli, and some comfortable homewear.

Then came the surprise.

She led me to the trial room with several bras of different sizes. I gave her a puzzled look.

“We already know we’re the same size,” she said with a wink. “Still, try them on.”

Blushing furiously, I tried them, and she confirmed the fit. I didn’t know why, but I obeyed. Somewhere in that moment, I trusted her completely.

Then, she took me to a discreet shop with a signboard that read: “A Special Place for Crossdressers.”

I hesitated. Raji held my hand. “Trust me.”

Inside, she spoke with the receptionist, who called a girl to take me inside. The girl smiled and said, “Come with me.” Confused and nervous, I looked at Raji. She simply nodded.

In the private room, the girl asked me to remove my blouse and saree. I hesitated, and she assured me, “Don’t worry. I’m also a crossdresser. You’re safe here.”

Still unsure, I obeyed. She took measurements of my chest and skin tone. Then she told me to get dressed again. When I came out, I asked Raji, “What just happened?”

She smiled. “I ordered you a pair of silicone breastforms. For daily use. You deserve to feel complete.”

I didn’t know what to say. Shy, overwhelmed, and touched—I just looked at her. She paid the bill. The receptionist handed us a card. “We’ll deliver them to your home. Do visit again or call if you need anything.”

We returned home, bags in hand, hearts full.

That night, as I carefully changed into my nightwear, Raji quietly said, “You can sleep in a saree if you want. I don’t have any objections.” Her words held no teasing—just calm acceptance. From that moment, sarees became not just a part of my day, but my night as well. They felt like a second skin now, and I no longer felt complete without them.

A few days later, the silicone breast forms we had ordered arrived. Raji helped me with everything—selecting, adjusting, and even matching my skin tone. When I wore them, I saw a version of myself in the mirror that felt more aligned, more real. The reflection wasn’t Deva anymore—it was Devika. And it felt… right.

Only during rare office meetings did I wear my old shirt and pants. But even then, something felt missing. My hands felt bare without bangles, my ears without earrings. Walking without anklets felt strangely silent. I realized then just how deeply these changes had become a part of me.

Time moved on. I handled my office work alongside cooking and managing the house. Our lives had become a quiet rhythm—shared, supported, and sincere.

The day before Raji’s birthday, I asked her what gift she wanted.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” she said with a warm smile. “But you have to promise you’ll do it, whatever it is.”

“I promise,” I replied without hesitation.

The next morning, I woke early and dressed more carefully than usual. Raji had asked me to wear the lehenga we had bought on our first shopping trip together—as Devika. I smiled, remembering that day, and dressed up before preparing breakfast.

After we ate together, she looked at me, her expression tender but slightly nervous. “Come with me,” she said, holding my hand gently.

She led me near the pooja mandir. I stood silently as she took something from the altar, then turned to me. “Close your eyes.”

I obeyed.

I felt her fingers brush my neck as she tied something around it. “Open your eyes,” she said.

When I looked down, I was stunned. A mangalsutra now adorned my neck. Before I could process it, she applied sindoor at the parting of my hair, then gently slipped silver toe rings on my feet.

Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke. “I know we’ve always been husband and wife. But when I saw you as Devika for the first time, something changed in me. I saw a partner I wanted to cherish in a new way. I want to live my life with you like this—from the heart. Will you accept it?”

Tears welled up in my eyes. I thought of everything—how far we’d come, the judgment we might face, the identities we had shaped together.

What had changed, really? I was already living this life. I wore sarees, ornaments, cooked, and cared for our home. The only difference now was the symbol—the sacred thread that said “You are mine, and I am yours.”

I picked up the holy rice and gently offered it to her, then bent down and touched her feet. “Bless me, maa andi,” I said softly, using the word a respectful wife in Telugu might use.

That night, I dressed in a white silk saree, adorned with soft gold embroidery. Raji had decorated our room with flowers, sweets, and scented candles. I held the glass of milk in my trembling hands, like a bride walking into her first night—nervous, excited, vulnerable.

She was waiting, sitting on the bed in a shirt and traditional dhoti, the way a groom might sit for his bride.

When our eyes met, no words were needed.

This wasn’t the end of our journey. It was a new beginning—one shaped by love, acceptance, and the courage to live truthfully.

That was the day we truly became a couple—not just friends, not just partners in name, but soulmates who had chosen each other with open hearts. From then on, we began our journey as life partners, not bound by convention, but by care, acceptance, and quiet devotion.

I took great care of our home—and of Raji, my husband in this new, beautiful equation we had created. I managed the household like any devoted spouse would: cooking, cleaning, organizing, and ensuring everything was just right for us. Wearing my sarees and jewelry, I no longer felt like I was playing a role. I was simply living the truth I had discovered within myself—Devika.

Sometimes, Raji would step into the kitchen, pretending to help with something—offering to chop vegetables or stir a pot—but before long, she would wrap her arms around me from behind, whisper something mischievous in my ear, and steal a moment of romance between spice and steam. Those moments sent my heart racing and made me feel cherished, desired, and alive in ways I never expected.

Each gentle touch, each knowing glance, reminded me that I was not alone in this transformation. I was loved, not in spite of who I had become, but because of it.

Our days flowed into a rhythm—soft, steady, and filled with quiet joy. Raji and I built a world where love wasn't defined by roles or expectations, but by how we showed up for each other every single day.

In the mornings, I would wake up before her, tie my saree with practiced ease, braid my hair, and prepare breakfast. I wasn’t pretending anymore. I was Devika—her wife, her partner, her love. And she was my strength, my comfort, my home.

There were challenges, yes. Moments of doubt. Awkward stares from strangers. But every time I looked at Raji and saw the way she looked back at me—with pride, with affection—I knew we were doing something brave. We were choosing honesty. We were choosing each other.

Our love was not loud. It was not dramatic. But it was deep. It was real.

And now, as I sit here writing this, dressed in a soft cotton saree that Raji gifted me just last week, anklets gently chiming with each step I take—I want to say one thing:

Thank you for reading.

With love,
Devika

This is my own story, created using AI. Please read the full piece and let me know in the comments whether you’d prefer I continue using AI or write completely in my own style.

Thank you for reading, with love from your sister.