A Home to Live In, A Saree to Live In

I reached the homestay at 4 pm and the mist had already come down.

My aunt's place in Munnar is not a hotel, it's a home that became a homestay. Small, wooden, with a red oxide floor that is always cold, a veranda with two cane chairs, and a kitchen that smells of old wood and dried tea leaves. Off-season now, so no guests for next two days. She had to go to Ernakulam for her knee operation, and she called me — "Monu, you are free no? Just go and keep the house open, light on, plants watered for 15 days. Keys under flower pot."

I came in my usual — oversized sweatshirt, jeans, backpack. The house was cold inside, quiet. The kind of quiet you hear. Outside, the mist was thick, you could smell wet earth and tea estates.

I opened the staff room to keep my bag. That's where aunt keeps extra linen, brooms, and staff sarees. There is a small steel almirah, with a small square mirror stuck on it with tape. On top of it, a comb with hair stuck, a small plastic box with red bindi packet, small gold jhumkas, red and white glass bangles, and a hair extension — long, dense, wavy, black, till waist, thick like a ponytail of three girls together, with a jasmine smell still in it.

Inside the almirah, only one set left. The other staff had taken theirs home. Three cotton sarees — light green with tiny white dots, mustard yellow with small border, and off-white with small red flowers — all washed, soft, faded from many washes. Three petticoats, three blouses — maroon velvet, red cotton, and white with small lace at sleeves. All stitched for a slender, small frame. Not for me. For the girls who worked here before.

I called aunt.

She said, "Ayyo, I forgot to keep your clothes. But you are same size as them no, slim and fair like my girls. You wear that only. Tourists coming on Thursday, they like traditional Kerala look. Female staff in saree only. Adjust 15 days, monu."

I said, "Aunt, those are ladies..."

She laughed, "Who will see? Hill station, off-season, mist only. Wear, otherwise how will you manage? Blouse is stretchable."

And cut the call.

I stood in that small staff room, looking at those sarees. My sweatshirt and jeans felt suddenly very city, very out of place in this wooden home with cold floors and smell of incense. The off-white with small red flowers was on top. It looked so soft, so practical, so beautiful at same time. Like a home saree.

I thought — just to try, to see if I can even wear it and sweep.

I locked the back door, closed veranda curtains. Cold was biting my legs through jeans.

I took off sweatshirt and jeans. My body in that small mirror — fair, slim, soft-looking from hostel life, thin wrists, narrow waist, shoulders not broad. I have always looked a little delicate for a boy, but in jeans no one notices because loose clothes hide. In that mirror, in just underwear, I looked slender, like a frame waiting for soft fabric.

I took the off-white petticoat. I tied it. I had to tie it tight because my waist is thin, and the cord pressed into soft skin, cold at first then warm. Then the blouse — maroon velvet, small, fitted. It was not like my sweatshirt that hung loose. This followed my body. It had hooks in front. I wore it — it was tight, elegant, it hugged my narrow chest, my back, my thin shoulders. The sleeves ended just above elbow. The velvet was soft against fair skin. I could see my collarbones in mirror, my neck looking longer.

Then the saree. I have seen women drape a thousand times but never done. I watched a YouTube video of Kerala saree draping on aunt's old phone, kept phone on floor.

First tuck at right side, flat. Then pleats — five pleats. My hands were not equal, fabric slipped, smooth cotton against smooth skin of my hands. I pressed pleats with palms, tried to make them equal, tucked at waist, at my thin waist where petticoat cord was. The pleats fell in a small fan over my feet, over my fair feet that were cold on red floor. Then pallu over left shoulder. I pinned it with a small safety pin I found, otherwise it kept falling.

Now mirror.

I didn't expect.

In off-white small flower saree, maroon velvet fitted blouse that highlighted my slender, delicate silhouette, I looked... like a girl who lives in a hill station home. Not a boy in saree. Because I am fair and slim, the saree fell neatly, waist looking tiny, pallu shaping chest softly.

Then hair. This is where awkwardness started.

I took that long, dense, wavy extension — heavy. You feel weight the moment you clip it. I clipped it on top of my short hair. Immediately, long hair fell around me — over shoulders, over back, till my hips, thick, black, smelling of jasmine and coconut oil. My short hair disappeared inside.

I took the comb and brushed. The dense hair made soft rustling sound. I brushed from top to bottom, slowly. With each stroke, it became shinier, more flowing. When I brushed forward, it fell over my shoulders, brushed against my bare arms, against maroon velvet blouse, soft, tickling, cool. When I threw it back, I felt it — long hair brushing against my bare back where blouse had small deep cut, soft, heavy, sliding on fair skin. I shivered because it was cold and tickling.

I parted it middle, put small red bindi between brows from that packet. I wore small gold jhumkas — light but when I turned head they swung and touched jaw. I put four red and white glass bangles — pushed up my thin wrist, they went chil, soft feminine sound, and stayed.

I sprayed a little jasmine from a small bottle on neck.

Now I looked like staff. Or like a young chechi who lives here.

Then I had to sweep the veranda. That was my first chore as... her.

I took the broom — coconut stick broom — and went to veranda. Mist was coming in, cold. The saree was immediately a problem. I took big boy steps like in jeans, and I stepped on pleats. I almost fell. The pallu fell from shoulder.

I learned first practical adjustment — I had to gather saree pleats with one hand, lift slightly, and secure pallu tucked at waist like working women do. I saw aunties do that. I did — pleats gathered, pallu tucked tight at waist, blouse pulling slightly at back.

But then hair — long, dense, wavy, till hips — fell over shoulder while I bent to sweep, covering my face, getting into mouth. I had to pause, push hair behind ear with bangle-clinking hand, but it fell again. I got irritated.

Sweeping sound — shhh shhh on red oxide floor — was rhythmic, satisfying. Dust, dried leaves, small insects. I swept, gathered pleats with left hand, broom in right, small graceful steps because fitted petticoat doesn't allow big steps. My anklets — aunt had kept a pair of small silver anklets in box — I had worn them — they went chil chil softly when I walked barefoot on cold floor. My bangles chil when I moved broom.

After ten minutes, floor became clean. Red oxide shining, cold, wet from mist. I stood in doorway, hands on thin waist, pallu now loose, long hair fallen over shoulder, a little sweaty at neck despite cold, bindi slightly crooked.

I went to the small square mirror on almirah and checked. Face a little red, hair messy, bindi moved, jhumkas swinging, saree pleats dusty. I did what I saw women do without thinking — I smoothed fabric over my hips with both palms, fixed pallu over shoulder, adjusted bindi straight, tucked long hair behind ear, straightened jhumkas.

I washed hands at the outside tap — cold water — and immediately after washing, I checked my appearance in the window glass — hair, bindi, blouse.

I felt awkward, irritated by fabric and hair, conscious of every fold. How do women work in this all day? I thought. Saree needs constant managing, long hair needs constant fixing, bangles make sound, earrings swing.

But when I looked at the veranda — clean, fresh, no leaves — and I stood there in off-white small flower saree, maroon velvet fitted blouse, long dense wavy hair till hips with jasmine smell, red bangles, jhumkas, barefoot on cold clean floor, mist coming in, smell of wet earth — I felt a small, quiet, strange satisfaction I never felt after cleaning my hostel room in jeans.

It wasn't just wearing women's clothes. It was trying to live in them, even for ten minutes of sweeping.

And I still had 15 days left.

The old couple came Thursday morning, exactly as aunt said, when the mist was still thick and I was in the middle of mopping the veranda in the light green cotton saree with tiny white dots and the red cotton blouse that was fitted tight at my thin waist. I had already learned something from yesterday — for cleaning you cannot keep long hair open — so I had clipped that long, dense, wavy extension again, heavy and black till my hips and smelling of jasmine, and tied it into a low, thick braid. It took time because dense hair slips, but when I made it the braid was thick like my wrist, heavy, falling till lower back with a small red thread tied at the end, and when I moved it swung and hit my back softly through the blouse. I had pinned pallu tight at shoulder with two safety pins and tucked the loose end at my waist like working chechis do, so both hands were free, and pushed my four red and white glass bangles up till elbow so they wouldn't slip down and break while mopping.

I was on my knees gathering saree pleats up a little so they don't get wet, mopping the red oxide floor with cold water, barefoot with anklets going chil chil when I shifted, braid falling over shoulder again and again, when the auto honked. I stood quickly, smoothed saree over my hips with both palms, a habit that had started yesterday without thinking, fixed pallu that had come loose, tucked my long thick braid behind my back and went to gate. The old couple with one small bag looked at me  fair, slim, in light green small dot cotton saree, red fitted blouse, long thick braid till lower back with red thread, small red bindi, small gold jhumkas, red bangles pushed up till elbow, barefoot on cold floor  and the old lady smiled and said mole, you are aunt's daughter? She said a girl will be here. I lowered eyes, fixed braid behind ear, bangles clinking, and said softly yes chechi, I am managing, and chechi came out again so naturally in a small soft voice. She said house is looking so clean, mole, and I felt something warm in chest despite the cold mist.

I made tea for them and this is where I learned jewellery management. The kitchen is small with low wood fire stove, I went to make tea, braid swinging, bangles chil, but when I put steel vessel on fire bangles heated quickly and sound was loud against vessel, so I remembered to remove before cooking.

I removed bangles and kept them on kitchen shelf, four and four neatly, and removed small gold chain with pearl that aunt had given me from her own box, thin chain that sits on fair skin above blouse, because it would get sweat and smell, and kept only small studs in ears, not jhumkas that swing and might fall in tea. I tied my long thick braid into a high bun for cooking so hair doesn't catch fire, twisting dense heavy wavy hair round and round and pinning with big black clip and small white gajra around it, the bun heavy and pulling at scalp but neat, few soft strands left at fair neck tickling.

 The red cotton blouse sleeves were till elbow but while washing tea cups after they got wet, so I folded them up a little above elbow exposing my thin fair arms. I served tea on small steel tray with pallu now taken out from waist tuck and draped properly over shoulder again because for serving you need graceful look not working tuck, I smoothed fabric over hips again before entering their room, fixed bindi in the small wall mirror near kitchen, straightened jhumkas I had worn again after cooking, and went. They were sitting on veranda, mist behind, old lady touched my braid and said your hair is so thick, mole, what oil you put, and I touched my own heavy bun with gajra shyly, bangles clinking, and said coconut oil, chechi.

After they went to room to rest I had to clean their bathroom, their old room after two days closed and dusty, and this is where I learned high shelf dusting. Pallu secured with pin at shoulder, but when I reached up to dust top shelf blouse pulled at back, petticoat cord pressed into soft skin, saree pleats tight at thin waist, braid swinging forward over shoulder and falling into dust, so I had to pause, put duster down, take long thick braid and put it fully in front over shoulder, then continue, and hair kept falling over shoulder while working alone, I would pause, retie it, fix it, push behind ear, and again it falls. When I finished room smelled of phenyl and fresh, bedsheet changed, folded neatly, pillows arranged, and I stood in doorway, hands on waist, bangles pushed up, braid in front, breathing a little fast, looking at clean room.

It was rhythmic and satisfying, sweep, dust, arrange, fold, the sound of broom, the shine of mopped floor, the neat fold of clothes. I went to the small square mirror on almirah after cleaning, my face a little sweaty despite cold, bindi a little moved, bun a little loose with few strands on neck, blouse a little dusty, I washed hands at tap with cold water and immediately after washing checked my appearance in window glass, fixed bun, fixed bindi, straightened jhumkas, smoothed saree.

I didn't think, I did it, like women do. That evening after old couple slept I sat alone in kitchen floor in same light green saree now a little dusty, braid now open and dense and wavy again till hips because bun pained, eating rice and curd, barefoot with anklets and bangles kept aside, looking at clean veranda outside, red floor shining, chairs arranged, plants watered, all done by me in saree with long hair and bangles. Yesterday I was irritated thinking how do women work in this, today I was curious how do they manage it so beautifully all day, and a small pride when old lady called me mole and said house is clean. I was not just wearing that light green cotton anymore, I was learning to live a little in it.

It rained whole Friday and no guests came, mist so thick you could not see the tea estate below, only white. Aunt called and said road is slippery, no one will come today, you rest. But I did not want to rest. The house was quiet and I wanted to clean it fully, not just sweeping. I was wearing the mustard yellow cotton saree with small border and the white lace blouse that day, with sleeves till elbow, fitted tight at my thin waist and narrow back. I clipped that long, dense, wavy extension again, brushed it till shining and smelling of jasmine oil, and tied it into a low thick braid with red thread, heavy and black till lower back, because for whole day cleaning open hair would be impossible.

I started with the hall. I took pallu and tucked it tight at my waist, like working women do, so both hands free and saree does not touch wet floor. I folded blouse sleeves up above elbow, exposing my fair thin arms, and pushed red and white bangles up till elbows. Barefoot on cold red oxide floor, anklets chil chil softly when I shifted, braid swinging and hitting back through blouse with each step. The sound of coconut broom on floor was shhh shhh, rhythmic, and dust and small leaves and dead insects gathered in one corner. I gathered pleats with left hand, broom in right, small graceful steps because fitted petticoat does not allow big boy steps, and mopped with cold water till floor shone wet and reflected the fairy lights.

After floor, I did cupboards. I opened the big wooden almirah where guest bedsheets kept, took all out, and folded them again neatly, smelling of old detergent and wood. I arranged them colour wise, white with white, yellow with yellow, pleats pressed with palms. While reaching high shelf, pallu pinned at shoulder pulled, petticoat cord pressed into soft skin at thin waist, blouse tight at back, and my long thick braid fell forward over shoulder into cupboard, brushing my cheek, soft and tickling. I had to pause, put folded sheet down, take braid and put it fully in front, then continue. That happened every ten minutes, hair falling over shoulder while working alone, and I would pause, retie it, push behind ear, fix gajra, smooth saree over hips.

Then I changed curtains. I stood on small stool in mustard saree, pallu tucked, braid in front, anklets going chil, and removed old curtains that smelled of dust and put fresh cream ones that aunt kept. I watered money plants in balcony, small green leaves with rain water on them, and wiped their leaves with wet cloth. I washed the cane chairs with wet cloth, dusted photos, arranged kitchen dabbas. The house started smelling fresh — phenyl, wet earth from rain, jasmine oil from my hair, hot tea I made for myself. Every room I finished, I stood in doorway, hands on waist, bangles pushed up, braid over shoulder, breathing a little fast, looking at clean room, red floor shining, bedsheets folded, curtains fresh, plants watered.

I went to the small square mirror on almirah after finishing, face a little sweaty despite cold, bindi moved, braid messy with few soft strands on fair neck, blouse dusty at back, saree pleats dusty. I washed hands at outside tap with cold rain water and immediately checked appearance in window glass, fixed braid, fixed bindi straight, straightened small jhumkas, smoothed saree over hips with both palms.

I didn't think, I did it naturally now. And when I sat alone in veranda at evening, in same mustard saree now a little wet at pleats, long braid open and dense and wavy till hips because braid pained, barefoot, anklets, eating hot rice and rasam, looking at clean, orderly, fragrant home, I felt a quiet happiness I never felt in my city room in jeans. It was not just clean because I swept, it was beautiful because I lived in it while cleaning, with bangles chil and hair swinging and saree managing.

Two college girls came Saturday afternoon with big backpacks, wet from rain, laughing, asking if hot water is there. I was wearing the off-white saree with small red flowers and maroon velvet blouse that day, fitted tight at my thin waist and narrow back, with long dense wavy extension brushed till shining and tied into a high bun with white gajra because I had to cook. When I saw their auto, I quickly smoothed saree over hips with both palms, fixed pallu over shoulder, checked bindi in kitchen small mirror, tucked soft strands behind ear, and went to gate with small graceful steps, anklets chil chil on wet floor, bun heavy pulling at scalp.

They looked at me and said chechi, we booked online, is this your homestay, you look so pretty like owner. I lowered eyes, fixed bun, bangles clinking, and said softly yes, welcome. Inside, I made them tea and this time cooking was easier because I remembered jewellery management.

I tied pallu tight at waist with double knot so it does not slip near fire, tied long heavy hair into high bun so it doesn't catch, removed jhumkas that swing and kept only small gold studs, removed thin pearl chain that sits on fair skin above blouse because sweat makes it smell, and folded blouse sleeves above elbow. While bending to open low kitchen cupboard for sugar, blouse pulled at back and petticoat cord pressed into soft skin, so I adjusted blouse with one hand, gathered saree pleats with other, natural now without thinking.

After tea, I did their room. I wanted to add my own touch now, not just clean like staff. I put a small steel vase with three white jasmine flowers on dining table, folded bath towels like swans I saw on YouTube, made bedsheet pleats with flower shape, and labeled kitchen dabbas with my handwriting on small paper tea, sugar, rice  like my mother does at home. While sweeping their veranda, I no longer thought about gathering saree pleats and securing pallu, my left hand automatically gathered, right hand broomed, small steps, braid or bun swinging. While holding bucket with one hand, other hand automatically fixed long hair that fell over shoulder, pushed behind ear, straightened jhumkas.

In evening, after they went out to see tea factory, I passed by the big hall mirror with dustpan and I paused without reason. I was in off-white flower saree, maroon blouse, long dense hair now open till hips because bun pained, heavy and wavy and smelling of jasmine, red bindi, red bangles, anklets, barefoot on clean red floor. I fixed bindi straight, smoothed saree over hips, tucked hair behind ear, straightened earrings, and smiled at my own reflection  not checking if I look like a girl, but looking like someone who runs a home and keeps it beautiful.

That night the girls came back and said chechi, your food tastes like mother's, your home feels like mother's home, so warm and clean. I served them rice and sambar in same off-white saree, pallu tucked, long braid over shoulder, bangles removed for serving hot vessels, and felt warm inside, tearful, belonging. I was not a boy doing women's work in women's clothes anymore, I was feeling like a woman caring for her own home.

Aunt called Sunday night and said road is opening tomorrow, you come back, I will close homestay for monsoon, no guests now. I said okay, but whole night it rained heavy, and morning the panchayat man came and said landslide on main road, blocked for two days, no auto will come. So I was stuck alone in that wooden home, mist all around, no one to see, only me and the house. I was wearing the off-white with small red flowers and maroon velvet blouse again that morning, with long dense wavy extension brushed and tied into a messy high bun because I had to sweep, few soft strands left on fair neck tickling, small red bindi, small studs, red bangles.

I swept the whole front yard, not just veranda, where leaves and mud had come with rain. I tucked pallu tight at waist, gathered pleats up a little, barefoot on wet cold earth, anklets chil chil, messy bun swinging. After sweeping, I washed clothes — my own three cotton sarees and aunt's curtains — in the big stone outside. Saree pallu over shoulder got wet, blouse back got wet, water dripped from pleats, and my messy bun opened and long dense hair fell over shoulder, heavy and wet, brushing against wet blouse and fair skin. I wrung saree pleats with both hands, bangles kept aside on stone, water dripping, hair falling again and again, and I paused to retie bun with wet hands, smooth saree over hips.

Afternoon, I cooked only for myself — small rice and rasam — in same wet saree changed to light green dot one, now with long thick braid over shoulder, barefoot in kitchen, anklets, only small studs and thin pearl chain that sits on fair skin above blouse, bangles removed because they clink on vessels. I ate alone sitting on kitchen floor, plate on banana leaf, eating with right hand, saree pleats gathered near feet, long braid falling over shoulder and touching plate, I pushed it behind. The kitchen smelled of rasam and wood, floor clean, dabbas arranged with my labels, curtains fresh, all done by me. It was quiet, only rain sound on roof.

Night was the deepest. No light for one hour, only small lamp. I took coconut oil from aunt's shelf and sat in front of small square mirror on almirah, in soft nighty that aunt left — light blue cotton nighty, loose, smooth against smooth skin, not fitted like blouse, but still feminine and soft. I opened my long dense wavy extension, heavy and black till hips, and oiled it. I poured oil on scalp, massaged slowly with fingertips, feeling heavy hair, smelling coconut and jasmine mixed. I brushed 100 strokes, slowly, from top to bottom, heavy hair rustling, shining, flowing over shoulders, brushing against nighty and fair skin of arms and back. Then I tied it into a loose braid for sleeping, with red thread at end, and slept on floor mat with clean bedsheets I had folded.

Morning I woke early, mist still, and sat in veranda after cleaning whole house again, in mustard yellow cotton saree, long dense hair now open and flowing till hips, brushed and shining, barefoot, anklets, small gold jhumkas, red bindi, sipping hot tea, looking at clean, orderly, fragrant home — red floor shining, chairs arranged, plants watered, curtains fresh, jasmine vase on table. I felt quietly happy, complete, peaceful. I thought, I wasn't merely wearing women's clothes anymore, I was discovering how I wanted to live in them, sweeping, cooking, folding, oiling hair, living alone as a woman in her own home, and liking it more than any city life.

Road opened Tuesday morning and aunt came by jeep with driver, with stick, looking tired after operation. She entered gate and stopped. The homestay was not same — red oxide floor shining wet and clean, veranda chairs arranged with small cushions, money plants watered and leaves wiped, fresh cream curtains, jasmine vase on dining table, kitchen dabbas labeled with my handwriting, guest bedsheets folded like in hotels, guest book full of new writings — house is so clean, chechi is so kind, food like mother's, we will come again. She looked at me standing in doorway in mustard yellow cotton saree with small border and white lace blouse fitted at thin waist, long dense wavy hair open till hips and brushed shining, small red bindi, small gold jhumkas, red bangles, anklets, barefoot, hands joined. She said ayyo mole, you kept home like temple.

She sat and drank tea I made, in same mustard saree, pallu draped properly over shoulder, long braid now over shoulder, bangles clinking softly, serving with both hands like woman of house. She said why you go back, you run it better than me, you stay permanently, I will make papers, this will be your home now, you are like daughter I never had. I lowered eyes, fixed long thick braid behind ear, smoothed saree over hips, and felt tearful, warm inside, because I did not want to go back to city room with jeans and sweatshirt. I wanted this — mist, wooden home, cold red floor, sweeping, cooking, folding, plants.

Next week I got my own almirah, not staff uniform but my own sarees chosen for work — three practical cottons for morning cleaning, off-white with small flowers, light green with dots, mustard with border, and two soft chiffons for evening welcoming, light pink and peacock blue, with fitted blouses stitched for my slender delicate frame, sleeves that allow movement, soft against fair skin. I kept my own box — long dense wavy hair extension now mine, brushed daily, oiled with coconut oil, jasmine oil and gajra, small gold jhumkas and studs, thin pearl chain, red and white bangles, small silver anklets, waist chain that I now wear always and feel chil when I walk, and small red bindi packet.

Now my daily ritual is fixed. Morning I wear light cotton for cleaning, off-white small flower saree and maroon velvet fitted blouse that shows my slender silhouette, long dense hair tied into thick low braid with red thread, heavy till lower back, swinging and hitting back, bangles pushed up till elbow, anklets chil chil, sweeping front yard, gathering pleats with left hand, securing pallu at waist, hair falling over shoulder while working alone and pausing to retie. Evening I change to soft chiffon for welcoming guests, hair open and dense and flowing till hips, brushed shining, small gajra, small jhumkas swinging, red bindi straight, waist chain soft on thin waist, barefoot, standing at gate.

When new visitors come, auto honk, I go to gate with small graceful steps, pallu draped properly over shoulder, long hair tucked behind ear, bindi fixed, smile — welcome to our home — and take their bag inside, serve tea on steel tray with both hands, bangles clinking, long hair falling over shoulder, adjusting saree before bending. They call me chechi, younger chechi who keeps home with love, and ask what oil for hair, how you keep house so clean. I touch my long thick braid shyly and say coconut oil, chechi, just love for home.

Today early morning, misty Munnar, cold, I am sweeping front yard again in off-white flower saree, maroon velvet fitted blouse tight at thin waist, long dense wavy hair in messy bun with few soft strands on fair neck, anklets, red bangles, barefoot on wet earth, leaves and mud. I gather pleats, tuck pallu, braid falling over shoulder, I pause, retie it, smooth fabric over hips, fix bindi, straighten jhumkas, and look at clean, orderly, fragrant home behind me, curtains fresh, plants watered, jasmine vase, and I feel quietly proud, belonging, complete. I decided to stay here permanently, not as boy who wore women's clothes for 15 days, but as woman owner-maid who welcomes new visitors and serves them with love, because I wasn't merely wearing women's clothes anymore, I was discovering how I wanted to live in them, and this is how.