Becoming Riya

Arjun had always been the quiet one. A good student, polite son, and reserved teen from a small town in Karnataka. But hidden behind his serious gaze was a curiosity he had never dared to explore—what it would feel like to be a girl.

It started when he was 14, watching a school play where a boy portrayed a bride in a stunning red saree. The way the saree hugged the body, the fluid grace of the pallu, and most of all—the long, braided hair swaying behind him—stirred something deep inside. It wasn’t just admiration. It was longing.

Now 18, Arjun was staying at his aunt's house for the summer in Mysore. His cousin, Deepika, was a classical dancer and had an entire room filled with costumes—sarees, salwars, wigs, jewelry, and makeup. One evening, left alone while everyone was out at a wedding function, Arjun stood at the threshold of that room, heart pounding.

He stepped inside.

The sarees were arranged on hangers like a rainbow. One caught his eye—a deep green Kanjeevaram saree with golden peacock motifs. He touched it, fingers trembling, the silk cool under his skin. He found a matching blouse in the drawer—slightly padded, feminine, snug.

He locked the room. Then, he undressed slowly.

Sliding the blouse on, he felt a strange warmth in his chest. He tied the skirt string around his waist and began pleating the saree carefully—Deepika’s dance costumes had taught him well. Each pleat aligned neatly as he tucked it into the waistband, letting the long pallu fall over his shoulder. It hung gracefully down his back.

Then he found the long wig.

It was a thick, black wig with jasmine flowers attached. He placed it gently over his cropped hair and looked in the mirror. A new person stared back. The hair fell below his back, swishing as he moved. He combed it slowly, savoring the feel of strands brushing his shoulders.

He picked up a gold necklace, jhumkas, and green bangles. Next came the kajal, thick around his eyes, then lipstick—a rich maroon to match the saree. Lastly, he added a small bindi on his forehead.

In that moment, he wasn’t Arjun anymore. She was Riya.

Riya stood tall in front of the mirror, adjusting her pleats, feeling the soft weight of the saree as it hugged her waist. She turned sideways, admiring her silhouette, brushing the long hair from her face. Every movement felt new and familiar at the same time.

She walked slowly across the room, the bangles chiming, saree swaying, pallu fluttering slightly. Her reflection smiled—shy, beautiful, alive.

She sat on the bed and gently ran her fingers through the long hair again, letting it fall over her shoulders. For the first time in her life, she felt complete.

Suddenly—a knock at the door.

Panic hit. Riya’s heart raced. But instead of tearing off the saree, she froze. She didn’t want to lose herself. Not yet.

“Arjun, are you in there?” It was Deepika.

“I—yeah, I’m just reading!” he called, trying to steady his voice.

She didn’t come in. She left. And Riya exhaled slowly, still in character, still wrapped in silk and mystery.

That night, Riya slept with her long hair beside her, still wearing the blouse, the bindi faintly visible. It wasn’t just dressing up—it was a part of her now.

The saree had awakened something beautiful.

The girl in the mirror wasn’t just a fantasy.

She was real.

And she had a name.

Riya.

The days after her secret transformation, Arjun couldn’t stop thinking about it. Every time he passed Deepika’s room, he felt a tug. The saree. The hair. The freedom.

And finally, on a quiet afternoon, with the house empty again, he gave in.

He returned to the same green Kanjeevaram saree—but this time, it felt like welcoming an old friend. As he pleated the fabric and let the pallu rest over his shoulder, a strange peace settled over him. Then came the wig—he brushed it slowly, parting it down the middle, letting the long, silky black hair fall across his chest.

He added the bangles, the necklace, and a pair of toe rings—everything had to be perfect.

But just as he finished applying a soft pink lipstick, he heard it—

Click.

The door hadn’t latched properly. Someone had opened it.

He turned in panic. Deepika stood there, frozen in the doorway, eyes wide.

Arjun (Riya) felt his knees go weak. He opened his mouth to speak, to explain—but nothing came out. Tears welled in his eyes.

Deepika stepped in and closed the door behind her, slowly. She looked at Riya for a long time—not with anger, but with quiet surprise.

Finally, she said gently,

"You look...beautiful. Is this why my wig smelled like jasmine the other day?"

Riya nodded slowly, ashamed.

But Deepika walked closer, sat beside her, and smiled softly.

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

“I... didn’t know how,” Riya whispered, clutching her pallu nervously. “I just wanted to feel... like her. Like Riya.”

Deepika reached out, gently tucking a strand of the long hair behind Riya’s ear.

"Then let’s do it properly. If you’re going to be Riya, you should learn to tie the saree like a dancer."

That moment felt like magic.

Deepika guided Riya to undrape the saree and start fresh. She picked a rich magenta Mysore silk saree, and helped Riya wear a perfectly fitted blouse with short sleeves and golden piping.

“This one brings out your eyes,” she said, fastening the hook behind the blouse as Riya looked away, cheeks flushed.

Then she knelt and folded the pleats—tighter, cleaner, more precise, tucking them into Riya’s waist like an expert. The pallu was pinned neatly over the shoulder. Then she picked up the wig and brushed it carefully.

“Let me braid it,” she said.

As Riya sat on the stool, Deepika parted the wig and began weaving it into a long, thick braid, tying it with a red ribbon and weaving jasmine strands into it.

The scent was overwhelming. The mirror showed not a boy in disguise, but a graceful young woman in full bloom.

“I have a favor to ask,” Deepika said as Riya stood, admiring herself.

“I’m performing at the dance festival next weekend... and we need a third girl for a Radha-Krishna act. Everyone else thinks Arjun left early. But I think... Riya should take that spot.”

Riya froze. “But... what if they find out?”

Deepika looked at her seriously. “They won’t. You’ll be in full costume. And besides...” She touched the braid, now swinging gently as Riya moved, “you were born to do this.”

Riya sat in front of the large vanity mirror backstage, the white bulbs glowing around her face. Around her, the other dancers were giggling, adjusting ghungroos and discussing choreography—but Riya was quiet, heart pounding.

Deepika stood behind her with a warm smile. “Nervous?”

Riya nodded slightly. “More than I’ve ever been.”

Deepika placed her hands on Riya’s shoulders.

“You’re not Arjun today. You’re Riya. And you were born for this.”

The costume was a deep royal blue and gold silk half-saree, with a heavy pleated fan stitched at the waist, shimmering under the light. The blouse had short puffed sleeves and golden trim, hugging Riya’s frame perfectly.

As Deepika tied the skirt tightly and adjusted the pleats, she said, “Breathe in. Stand tall.”

She pinned the long pallu over Riya’s shoulder, then knelt down to help her wear the ghungroos, wrapping them around each ankle.

Next came the wig—but this time, it wasn’t just a wig.

It was a thick, glossy braid, freshly oiled and woven with white jasmine strands, hanging well below her back. Deepika added a matha patti (forehead ornament), big jhumkas, and a nose pin. Riya looked at herself in the mirror—and gasped.

The kajal, red lipstick, bindi, earrings... everything together brought Riya to life.

Not Arjun pretending.

But Riya—radiant, graceful, real.

The stage lights dimmed. The music began—soft flute, then tabla.

Riya stepped onto the stage with Deepika and another dancer, all three dressed as Radhas circling a Krishna. Her heart thudded, but the moment her feet hit the floor, the rhythm took over.

Every step of her ghungroos echoed like thunder.

Every spin let her braid fly in an arc behind her, brushing her back like a soft whip.

Her bangles chimed as she moved her arms gracefully, eyes lined with emotion.

She wasn't pretending anymore. She was Radha. She was Riya.

The lights, the music, the crowd—it all blurred into a whirl of movement and joy. She caught Deepika’s eyes once, mid-spin, and they both smiled. A silent bond.

When the music ended, the crowd burst into claps.

Riya stood there, chest rising with breath, heart open. For a moment, time stopped.

She felt seen.

The announcer called the names. “Deepika, Pooja... and Riya.”

Riya.

The name hung in the air like a crown of gold.

Backstage, Riya sat silently, still in full costume, sweat beading down her neck, her braid slightly messy but still fragrant with jasmine.

Deepika handed her a bottle of water and smiled. “You did it.”

Riya whispered, almost afraid to believe it.

“I was her. I really was her.”

Deepika leaned in and gently said,

“You are her. You don’t have to hide anymore. Not from me.”

Later that night, back at home, Riya stood in front of the mirror, her braid untied, jasmine petals in her palm.

She didn’t cry. She smiled.

The boy who once only imagined...

Had stepped into the light.

And the girl within?