Recap of Part 4
The last few days felt like a dream.
I could still remember everything from that morning — the way Riya had held my hand like I was a delicate girl while we stepped out, the soft sound of my anklets brushing against my sandals, and how my dupatta kept slipping as we rode through the streets. That small flower-selling girl’s voice still echoed in my ears — “Akka, buy some flowers, they’ll look beautiful in your braid.”
How embarrassed I’d felt when Riya actually bought them, and how my heart nearly stopped when the little girl pinned them in my hair before I could even react.
And then, that long ride… the silent moments broken only by the sound of traffic and my own heartbeat. The way those men stared at me at the signal, and how instinctively I’d pulled my dupatta tighter over my chest. Riya hadn’t said a word then — she just let me face the world quietly, letting me feel what it meant to be seen like a girl.
Lunch at the hotel had been magical — the violin music, the way Riya kept smiling at me while I started to relax, the waiter calling both of us madam without a hint of doubt. After that came the surprise shopping trip — the blue and saffron half-saree, the jhumkas, the bangles, the delicate waist chain. And finally, the moment we returned home, when Mom teased me softly, saying she couldn’t wait for Riya’s birthday to see her daughter fully dressed.
That sentence kept playing in my mind ever since.
Part 5
The morning of Riya’s birthday arrived faster than I expected.
I woke up early with mom voice, heart thumping with a strange mix of excitement and nervousness. The house was quiet, sunlight filtering through the curtains. I sat up slowly, feeling the soft weight of my hair brushing against my back — now longer, smoother, and carefully oiled the night before by Mom.
Her words from last evening still echoed in my head:
“Tomorrow is a big day, beta. You’ll make her proud — and yourself too.”
“Raj, wake up, it’s already six,” Mom’s soft voice called from the doorway.
I turned slightly, rubbing my eyes. She was standing there in a beautiful maroon saree, her hair tied in a bun, a faint smile on her lips. There was something different about her that morning — a quiet excitement, a glow that made her look younger somehow.
“Come on, freshen up quickly,” she said. “Riya will be here soon.”
Her words sent a flutter through my chest. Riya… today… half-saree…
I nodded weakly and went to bathe. Mom reminded me again from outside,
“Head bath, beta. The flowers won’t sit properly otherwise.”
The familiar ritual followed — the water cooling my nerves, the scent of jasmine shampoo, the soft rhythm of my bangles against the bucket’s rim as I rinsed my hair. When I stepped out, the towel clutched around me, the air felt heavy with a kind of anticipation I couldn’t describe.
Mom was already in my room when I came out, everything arranged neatly on the bed: the blue and saffron half-saree, the matching jhumkas, a waist chain, and the small packet of fresh jasmine flowers we’d bought the evening before.
“Sit here, beta,” she said softly, pointing to the stool near the mirror.
I sat, my heart pounding. Mom ran her fingers gently through my damp hair, combing it slowly, detangling each knot with care. The sound of the comb, the light fragrance of the oil — it was soothing, almost like meditation.
“You know,” she said quietly, “when I was your age, I wore my first half-saree. I was terrified too. But when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see fear anymore — I saw myself. You’ll see the same today.”
Her words sank deep into me.
She began braiding my hair, long, even strokes gathering it together. When she finished, she picked up the small jasmine garland and pinned it gracefully around the braid. The fragrance filled the room — pure, soft, and delicate.
Then came the makeup — light and natural, just enough to enhance the features. Foundation, a faint blush, eyeliner that drew out the femininity already hidden in my eyes. The soft pink lipstick from the last time, and a tiny bindi placed between my brows.
“Now…” she said, lifting the folded fabric, “time for your half-saree.”
My pulse quickened.
She helped me into the blue skirt, the silk cool against my skin. It flared beautifully when I turned slightly. The blouse followed — a snug fit that brought an unfamiliar awareness of my own frame. And then came the most intricate part — the saffron dupatta.
Mom pleated it slowly, her hands sure and graceful, pinning one end neatly to my left shoulder. The rest she let drape across my front, cascading down the right side. She adjusted it until it framed me perfectly, the colors blending like dawn and dusk meeting.
When she stepped back and looked at me, her eyes softened.
“My beautiful daughter,” she whispered, just like the first time.
I couldn’t speak. My throat tightened.
She placed the waist chain around me, the cool metal resting lightly over the skirt’s edge. Then she made me wear the jhumkas — small silver bells that swayed with every tiny movement.
At last, she handed me a small mirror and said, “Look.”
I looked — and for a second, I didn’t recognize the reflection. The person in the mirror wasn’t the Raj I’d grown up seeing. It was someone softer, calmer — someone whose eyes glimmered with both fear and belonging.
“Mom…” I whispered, “I… I look like…”
She smiled, finishing my words for me. “Like yourself.”
She pressed a small black dot of kajal behind my ear — “no evil eyes,” she said again with a wink — and then hugged me tight.
“Perfect,” she said softly. “Everything is just right.”
She checked the time, then smiled. “Come, we’ll go together. I’ll drop you at Riya’s place.”
For a moment, I blinked in surprise. “You’ll come with me?”
“Of course,” she said, picking up her car keys. “It’s your first time stepping out in a half-saree. Let me be there until you reach her safely.”
I nodded, a strange mix of relief and nervousness swirling inside me. She walked out ahead while I carefully gathered my dupatta, making sure it stayed over my chest the way she’d taught me. The gentle clink of my anklets echoed softly with each step, like a secret rhythm of my heartbeat.
When I stepped outside, the morning sun brushed against the saffron fabric, making it glow. Mom had already unlocked the car. She opened the front passenger door and smiled. “Come, sit here.”
I got in carefully, holding my dupatta close and adjusting my skirt so it wouldn’t crease. The seat felt cooler than I expected. Mom fastened her seat belt and started the car, the gentle hum filling the quiet air.
The drive began silently — trees passing by, morning traffic humming in the background. I could feel every flutter of my heart, every shift of the dupatta on my shoulder. Occasionally, I caught my reflection in the window — the faint shimmer of my jhumkas, the tiny bindi glowing under the sunlight, the braid lying softly over my shoulder.
With each passing turn, my excitement grew… but so did my fear. What would Riya think? Would she like how I looked? Would she really see me — not as the boy she once dated, but as the person I was slowly becoming?
Mom must have noticed the tension in my hands because she gently reached over and gave my fingers a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Riya loves you for who you are. Today is not about judgment — it’s about truth.”
Her words calmed something deep inside me. I smiled faintly and nodded.
When we finally turned into Riya’s street, my heartbeat quickened again. Her house came into view — familiar, yet somehow different today. The saffron of my dupatta fluttered softly in the cool breeze sneaking through the window.
Mom parked the car right in front of Riya’s gate and turned off the engine. For a moment, we both sat silently.
Then she turned toward me and said, “Come on, my dear. It’s time.”
I opened the door carefully, holding my skirt as I stepped out. The faint sound of my anklets echoed again, louder now against the stillness of the quiet lane. Mom joined me, straightened my dupatta one last time, and brushed her hand over my shoulder.
“Perfect,” she whispered, smiling. Then she gestured toward the front door. “Go on — ring the bell.”
I swallowed hard. My fingers trembled as I reached for the doorbell. The moment my fingertip touched it, my heart started pounding so fast it almost drowned out everything else — even the faint chime of the bell itself.
And then — the door opened.
Riya stood there, framed by the soft light inside her house. For a split second, she just looked at me — eyes wide, lips slightly parted, as though she’d forgotten how to breathe.
Her gaze moved slowly — from my jasmine braid to my earrings, to the delicate pleats of the half-saree, to my trembling hands clutching the dupatta.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even blink. My world had narrowed to that one moment — her eyes meeting mine, the quiet shock giving way to a tender smile.
“Raj…” she whispered finally, her voice almost breaking. “You look… incredible.”
Riya’s words were still echoing softly between us when I felt a light touch on my shoulder.
Startled, I turned — it was Mom. She smiled gently, holding out a small handbag.
“You forgot this in the car,” she said.
“Oh… thank you,” I whispered, taking it from her.
But in that brief moment, as I turned, my dupatta shifted slightly. The pleats that had been resting gracefully across my waist slipped aside, revealing a glimpse of my navel — smooth, faintly glowing under the saffron edge of the half-saree.
Riya’s breath caught. I saw her eyes widen just slightly before her lashes fluttered down.
I froze, suddenly aware, heat flooding my face. Without even thinking, my hands moved instinctively — just as I’d seen Mom or other women do — adjusting the dupatta delicately, tucking it back in place to cover the spot. The movement was natural, fluid… feminine.
For a second, there was silence. Riya blinked, her composure returning, and then she smiled — that same teasing smile that carried warmth behind it.
Before I could say anything, she looked past me and noticed Mom walking toward the car.
“Aunty!” she called out quickly. “Where are you going? Please don’t leave yet — at least stay for the celebration!”
Mom turned, a little surprised. “Oh, no dear, it’s your special day. You should enjoy with your friends,” she said gently. “I don’t want to intrude.”
But Riya shook her head and came forward, her tone firm yet affectionate. “Please, Aunty. There’s no party without you both. You’ve done so much for me… and for Raj.”
Her words carried a hidden tenderness that made me glance at her curiously, but Mom only smiled, that calm understanding flickering in her eyes. After a brief pause, she nodded.
“All right then. Just for a little while.”
Together, we followed Riya inside.
The moment we stepped into the living room, I froze again — the air felt still, almost ceremonial. There were no balloons, no cake, no music. Just a quiet setting — the sofa neatly arranged, a vase of fresh flowers on the table, and Riya’s parents sitting there, waiting.
They both stood as we entered. Her father smiled first, broad and welcoming, and her mother followed with a warmth that instantly eased some of my nervousness.
“So,” her father said with a faint chuckle, looking directly at me, “you must be Raj — our daughter’s boyfriend?”
My heart skipped. His tone wasn’t mocking — it was kind, amused, even approving.
I nodded quickly, lowering my gaze with respect. “Yes, Uncle,” I said softly.
Then, without thinking twice, I bent down to touch their feet — a gesture that came as naturally to me as breathing now.
They both looked pleasantly surprised, exchanging a quick glance before blessing me.
Her father’s voice softened. “Good manners… not something you see often these days.”
Her mother smiled, her eyes gentle but assessing, taking in my braid, my half-saree, the modest way I stood. “And such a beautiful child,” she said, almost fondly. “Not just in appearance, but in behavior too. Not like many girls these days.”
I blushed, lowering my eyes further. I could feel the tips of my ears burning as Riya grinned beside me, clearly enjoying my embarrassment.
Mom, standing quietly behind, smiled too — a proud, knowing look in her eyes.
The air inside Riya’s living room felt warm now — the tension that had first knotted in my chest was slowly melting into something softer.
Riya’s mother insisted that Mom sit beside her, and soon, the two of them were talking like old friends. Her father joined in, cheerful and curious, asking about our families, work, and the neighborhood.
Mom responded gracefully, her voice steady and polite. It was a normal conversation at first — pleasant, calm, sprinkled with laughter here and there. They spoke about food, festivals, even the jasmine flowers in my hair that Riya’s mother said reminded her of her own college days.
But slowly, the discussion shifted — gently, naturally — toward something deeper.
“So…” Riya’s father said finally, his tone light but meaningful, “we’ve seen how close they both are.”
My heart began to race.
Riya glanced at me from the corner of her eye, her lips curving into a soft smile. Mom caught the look and smiled too, her hands resting calmly in her lap.
Then her father added, “We’ve been talking, you know. About… the future. About marriage.”
The word marriage hit me like a quiet wave. My breath caught, and my hands instinctively clutched at the edge of my dupatta.
“Marriage…” I whispered, almost to myself. My cheeks burned hot. I lowered my gaze quickly, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.
Riya noticed and smiled gently, placing her hand on mine under the table — a small, reassuring squeeze that made my heart flutter even faster.
All three of them — my mother and Riya’s parents — noticed my shy reaction and exchanged soft, knowing smiles.
Mom chuckled lightly. “See how he blushes just hearing the word?” she teased warmly.
Riya’s mother laughed too. “That’s a good sign. Means his heart’s already there.”
I could feel my ears growing hotter by the second, but somewhere beneath the embarrassment was a deep, quiet happiness.
Then Riya’s father turned serious again, his voice steady but kind. “We’re very happy with this. Riya told us everything, and we see how much she cares for him… and how much he respects her. That’s what matters.”
Mom nodded. “Yes. I just want them both to be happy. And I think… they will be.”
Her words filled the room with a warmth that no decoration or music ever could.
Finally, they agreed — not formally, not with rituals or documents, but with a shared understanding.
“One year from now,” her father said gently. “Once Riya settles into her job, we’ll fix the date.”
Mom smiled, her eyes glistening faintly. “That sounds perfect.”
Riya looked at me then — and I looked back. There was no need for words. Her smile said everything.
For the first time in my life, I felt something I couldn’t quite name — not just love, but belonging.
And as laughter and soft conversation filled the room again, my heart whispered quietly,
Maybe this was always where I was meant to be.
Riya’s birthday had come and gone once again, and with it, an entire year had quietly slipped by — a year that changed everything about me.
That first birthday we celebrated together felt like yesterday, but so much had happened since.
In that one year, Riya and I went everywhere — malls, movie theaters, parks, beaches… places where couples usually go to create memories. And each time, Riya made sure it wasn’t just a date — it was an experience, a lesson in living as the woman I was becoming.
Depending on the place, she’d choose what I should wear. Sometimes western dresses — skirts, tops, even jeans. Other times, salwar suits, lehengas, or half-sarees. By now, I had worn them all. And though every outfit made me feel beautiful in its own way, there was one that touched me most deeply — the saree.
There was something magical about it. The way it wrapped around me, the soft swish against my legs when I walked, the elegance it gave to my posture — it didn’t just make me look feminine, it made me feel it.
And so, when Riya’s birthday came around again, I knew exactly what I wanted to wear.
A simple plain yellow saree, paired with a bright red blouse. Not designer, not heavy — but pure and radiant. I bought it myself, along with the perfect matching jewelry, bangles, and a pair of delicate anklets that chimed softly when I walked.
That morning, I got ready on my own — for the first time without Mom’s help. The mirror reflected someone I almost didn’t recognize — a woman glowing like gold, her hair braided beautifully, the yellow silk draping her like sunlight itself. My skin had a soft sheen, my lips glowed red, and my eyes — lined neatly with kajal — seemed to hold a quiet confidence I’d never seen before.
When Mom walked in and saw me, her eyes widened. For a second, she just stood there, taking it all in. Then a mischievous smile spread across her face. “Oh my, my,” she teased. “If Riya sees you like this, she won’t wait for the wedding night. She’ll drag you straight into the honeymoon suite!”
“Mom!” I gasped, my cheeks turning crimson. She laughed warmly, her laughter filling the room like a melody. After a moment of teasing and laughter, we shared breakfast and prepared to leave for Riya’s home.
Today, I wasn’t nervous. I’d visited Riya countless times over the past year — dressed in every possible style she’d wanted to see me in. The world had stopped feeling frightening. I’d learned to walk, talk, and move comfortably in my skin — and in my sarees.
But there was still one small flutter of fear inside me. Not about being seen — but about Riya’s reaction. I knew how I looked today. And I also knew what her eyes said the last time she saw me in something truly traditional — the half-saree a year ago.
The thought made my heartbeat quicken as we pulled up in front of her house.
Riya opened the door — and for a moment, time repeated itself. Her face froze in the same expression she’d worn a year earlier — wide eyes, parted lips, complete silence. Only this time, I wasn’t shyly hiding behind my dupatta.
This time, I smiled. Stepping forward, I extended my hand and said softly, “Happy birthday, my love.”
Her eyes softened instantly, snapping her back to reality. She smiled, taking my hand in hers. “Come in,” she said, her voice warm and a little shaky. “You look… absolutely breathtaking.”
Inside, the celebration was small — intimate, like before. Just the five of us: Riya, her parents, my mom, and me.
We laughed, shared lunch, and reminisced about how quickly the year had flown by. But as the afternoon settled into a comfortable silence, Riya’s father leaned forward, clearing his throat with a smile.
“So,” he said, “it’s been a year now. Riya is doing wonderfully at work. Don’t you think it’s time we talk about… the marriage?”
My heart skipped. That word again — marriage.
Mom smiled softly, her hands folded on her lap. “Yes,” she said. “I think it’s time.”
Riya’s parents nodded in agreement. There was a soft joy in their eyes, the same quiet acceptance that had guided everything this far.
But then came the moment of confusion — one that none of us had ever voiced before.
Riya’s father chuckled lightly. “There’s just one thing we’ve been wondering…” he said, looking between us. “Between you two… who will be the bride and who will be the groom?”
The room fell silent for a heartbeat.
Everyone looked at me.
I swallowed hard, my fingers brushing against the edge of my pallu. Then, gathering my courage, I said softly, “I’ll be the bride.”
There was a ripple of surprise, but then I added quickly, “But… I have one condition.”
They all leaned in, curious.
“I want to tie the mangalsutra around Riya’s neck too,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “Just once… to satisfy the man in me.”
The room stayed silent for a long second — and then, to my relief, everyone smiled.
Riya tilted her head, her eyes gleaming playfully. “That’s fair,” she said. “But only after I tie mine around your neck first.”
Her words made my cheeks flush deep red, and everyone laughed — a soft, loving laughter that filled the house like sunlight.
Mom looked at us both, pride glimmering in her eyes. “Perfect,” she said quietly. “Just perfect.”
And in that moment, surrounded by laughter, love, and acceptance, I realized something simple and profound — A year ago, I was afraid to even step outside in a kurta. Now, I was about to become a bride.
After visiting the priest, both families fixed our wedding date. There was only a month left.
One month — it sounded like enough time, but it passed like an hour. The days blurred together in a whirlwind of preparations — saree selections, invitations, shopping, visits to the jeweler, and endless laughter filling both our homes.
Mom and Riya’s mother worked together on every detail, and I could see pride in both their eyes — not just as they planned a wedding, but as they watched me truly become the woman I was meant to be.
And then… the day finally arrived.
My wedding day.
That morning, I was taken to the beauty parlor, where the beautician and her assistants surrounded me with soft hands and warm smiles. They draped me in a rich red pattu saree, its golden border shimmering under the lights. Layer by layer, piece by piece, they adorned me with every ornament a bride could wear — gold necklaces, bangles, anklets, earrings, waist chain, nose ring, and a delicate maang tikka resting against my forehead.
By the time they were done, I barely recognized myself.
My hair, now long enough to reach my lower back, was styled into an elegant bridal braid, decorated with strands of jasmine and tiny gold pins that glittered like starlight. The scent of flowers, sandalwood, and fresh turmeric surrounded me as I stood before the mirror.
The reflection that stared back wasn’t just me — it was every version of me I had ever been, woven together into one. The shy boy who once hid behind excuses. The nervous soul who feared judgment. The girl who found her truth in a mirror. And now — the bride, standing proudly in her red silk saree.
When I walked toward the mandap, a hush fell over the crowd. I could see it in their eyes — disbelief, wonder, admiration. No one could believe that the glowing bride before them had been born male.
But in that moment, it didn’t matter. Because every step I took felt right. Every rustle of silk whispered the same truth — this is who I was meant to be.
Riya stood waiting at the mandap, her eyes full of warmth and love. She looked radiant herself — a picture of confidence and grace. And when our eyes met, we both smiled.
When the auspicious time came, the priest recited the mantras. Riya took the mangalsutra in her hands — her fingers trembling slightly — and tied it gently around my neck.
A wave of emotion swept through me. My eyes filled with tears, not of fear or confusion, but of joy, peace, and belonging.
The priest continued, chanting more mantras, his voice echoing softly through the hall. People looked around, puzzled for a moment, wondering why the ceremony wasn’t ending.
Then, I reached forward — my hands steady — and took another mangalsutra. With a deep breath, I tied it around Riya’s neck, just as I had promised a year ago.
The priest smiled, chanting the final mantras.
And when he declared, “Your marriage is complete,” it wasn’t just a union of husband and wife —
it was the completion of a journey.
The crowd cheered. Mom stood near the mandap, her eyes wet, her smile endless. When our eyes met, I saw everything — her love, her pride, her patience.
It was her who had guided me through every uncertain step. Her who had turned my quiet wish into a living truth. Her who had never once forced, never once judged — only led me gently toward who I truly was.
That day, as I stood beside Riya, the sacred thread warm against my neck, I whispered silently to myself:
Mom didn’t just accept my desire.
She made it come true.
And as the sun dipped low behind the temple walls, Riya and I walked out hand in hand —
as wife and husband,
as soulmates,
as two hearts bound by love.
But in my heart, one truth shone brighter than all the gold I wore that day —
This wasn’t just my story.
It was my mother’s love story too —
The story of how she made my desire come true.
💫 THE END 💫
— How My Mom Made My Desire Come True
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