Becoming Riya: Her Wife, Her World"

Raj married Meera when she was just 22. People raised eyebrows—the age gap was obvious, and she was still studying when they got engaged. But they loved each other in their own way. Meera was full of energy, laughter, and questions about the world. Raj was steady, grounded, and deeply affectionate. For the first few years, everything was smooth. She bloomed under his attention, and he felt younger in her presence.

But after five years of marriage, something changed.

It wasn’t abrupt—it was quiet, slow. Raj started turning away more often in bed. At first, Meera brushed it off as work stress. Then weeks passed. Months. Her kisses went unanswered. His hands no longer wandered. The silence between them in the bedroom grew heavy.

One night, she found him asleep on the couch, the TV still on. She went to shut down his laptop and found a folder—tucked away under layers of other files. Out of curiosity, she clicked it open.

What she saw made her stop breathing for a second.

Photos. Old ones. Of Raj—but not as she knew him.

He was wearing a green chiffon saree, with a matching blouse that hugged his chest. Bangles on his wrists. Kajal-lined eyes. Hair—probably a wig—braided loosely over one shoulder. And he wasn’t mocking it. He looked… calm. Even a little beautiful. The way he looked at the camera wasn’t as a joke. It was something private. Something real.

Meera stared for a long time.

The next day, she didn’t bring it up. But her mind wouldn’t let go of it.

Later that week, she came out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, and caught Raj watching her absentmindedly. That old longing rose up in her again—and frustration, too. She wrapped her arms around him from behind. “You used to chase me more,” she whispered.

He gave a sad little smile. “I’m sorry, Meera. It’s not you.”

“I know,” she said. And then, after a beat, “Maybe… we just need to try something new.”

The idea had been forming in her mind slowly, carefully.

That Sunday afternoon, she walked into the bedroom holding one of her soft kurtis and a pair of leggings. “Here,” she said playfully. “Try this on. Humor me.”

He looked up, confused. “What?”

“I want to see how it looks. Just try it, Raj.”

He hesitated. Her tone was light, teasing, but her eyes were steady. Slowly, awkwardly, he took the clothes and went to change.

When he came out, the kurti clinging slightly to his body, Meera smiled—not mocking, but gently.

“You look... nice,” she said softly.

He looked down, self-conscious. “I used to do this. Years ago.”

“I know,” she said simply.

That night, for the first time in months, something shifted.

They made love. Not rushed, not wild—but deep, connected, like something had been unlocked. She noticed the way he responded to her touch more when she called him “pretty,” when her fingers brushed his now-shaven arms, when she guided his hands slowly over her body.

Afterwards, they lay tangled, sweaty and quiet.

“You felt different,” she whispered. “You were... more alive.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just reached for her hand and held it tight.

It was the start of a long-awaited week of holidays. No office, no emails, no excuses. Meera had been planning quietly, her mind buzzing ever since that night when Raj—wearing nothing more than one of her old kurtis—had made love to her like he hadn’t in years.

She wanted to explore more. Not just in bed—but out in the world. She wanted to see him embrace this side, to help him feel it, live it. And maybe… enjoy it more than he ever thought possible.

On Tuesday morning, over coffee, she brought it up casually. “So… I was thinking. What if we tried going out again—just for fun—but as… her?”

Raj blinked. “You mean… me dressed?”

She smiled. “Yes. Full look. Not just at home. I’ll help you.”

He hesitated, laughing nervously. “Meera, come on. Outside? No way.”

She scooted closer, her fingers brushing his. “We won’t go anywhere where someone knows us. Just for one night. I already found the perfect place. Dark lighting, good music. You’ll blend right in.”

Still he hesitated. But she leaned in, whispered at his ear, “You were never more you than that night. Don’t you want to feel that again?”

By evening, she’d booked an appointment under the name “Riya” at a discreet salon on the edge of town. She packed a small duffel bag with everything they’d need.

“You’re serious,” Raj said, watching her zip it shut.

“I am,” Meera said, grinning. “And trust me, you’re going to love this.”

---

The salon was quiet, its lights warm, private cabins curtained off for privacy. The staff didn’t blink when Meera introduced Raj as “her shy cousin who wanted a special makeover.”

The transformation began.

First, his face was cleansed and massaged gently. The beautician shaped his brows—clean, arched just enough to soften his expression—and applied a mild facial bleach to even out his tone. Then came primer, concealer, and a flawless base. Meera watched as her husband slowly disappeared and someone else—someone beautiful—began to emerge.

False lashes, subtle smoky eye shadow, rose-colored lips. A dusting of blush that warmed his cheeks. “You have lovely cheekbones,” the stylist murmured. “Very photogenic.”

Next, they guided Raj to the hair section.

A long, jet-black wig awaited—perfectly layered, parted slightly to the side. As the stylist pinned and adjusted it, Meera came up behind him and whispered, “You look stunning, Riya.” She brushed a hand through the silky length, letting it fall in waves past his chest.

Then came the body.

They helped him into a soft, form-fitting shapewear suit with breast forms already inserted—rounded, natural, swaying slightly with movement. “D-cup,” Meera teased. “Might as well go all the way.”

Then, gently, the staff handed over a silicone panty—anatomically detailed, smooth, even with a touch of realism. Raj swallowed, his face red, but Meera kissed his cheek. “It’s okay. It’s just us here. No shame.”

They helped him into it—tight, hugging him snugly. When he stood, dressed in it all, his figure had changed completely. A curvy waist, soft hips, long legs. She gave him a mirror.

Raj—no, Riya—just stared.

A soft velvet black dress completed the look. Sleeveless, hugging the waist, with a modest neckline that still gave shape to the breasts. Meera added a pair of hoop earrings, a thin chain, and black heels.

She stepped back. “You’re breathtaking.”

He turned slowly, watching how the hair moved with him, how his hips swayed naturally, the soft bounce of his chest. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered.

“Believe it,” she said, looping her arm into his. “Now come on. There’s a club waiting for Riya.”

The car ride to the club was quiet at first. Raj kept looking down at himself—no, herself now. The soft black velvet of the dress hugged every curve Meera had helped create. The silicone forms gave her a full, high chest that subtly bounced with the car’s movement. The shapewear cinched her waist just enough to make the hips appear naturally fuller, the silicone panty adding a seamless curve below. Long legs shimmered in sheer black stockings, crossed nervously at the knees.

But it was the hair that kept distracting her most.

The wig wasn’t cheap. Each time Riya turned her head, she felt the long black strands brush her shoulders, tickle her upper back. It moved naturally, swaying gently, and carried the faint scent of the salon’s jasmine oil. She’d catch glimpses of herself in the side mirror and still gasp—this woman, this soft, mysterious woman—was her.

Riya.

Even sitting beside Meera, who was confidently adjusting her lipstick in the mirror, Raj felt like she wasn’t just playing dress-up anymore. She felt like someone else. Still herself—but freer. Lighter. Not judged.

They reached the club around 10. The place was buzzing with energy, neon lights spilling onto the sidewalk, the muffled thump of bass beating through the doors.

Meera slid out of the car in a tight red top and jeans, high heels clicking on the pavement. She turned, offered a hand. “Ready, Riya?”

Riya hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah… I think I am.”

They entered arm-in-arm. The bouncer glanced at them and waved them through, uninterested. Inside, the music hit like a wave—deep, rhythmic, pulling the crowd into its pulse. The bar glowed purple. Booths and corners were dimly lit, couples dancing, laughing, bodies moving close.

Meera guided her to a side booth and ordered two cocktails.

“You’re doing amazing,” she whispered into Riya’s ear.

Riya nodded, her heart racing—not just from nerves, but excitement. Her dress rode up slightly when she crossed her legs, and she reached to pull it down, the soft tug of velvet and the tight hug of her curves reminding her of the body she wore tonight. Her breasts shifted naturally as she moved, and every breath pressed them slightly higher.

When she leaned on the table, her long hair fell over her shoulder in a cascade. She saw a few people glance their way. And for once, she didn’t shrink under it.

Two men approached their booth after a while—one tall, fair, with sharp eyes, and the other broader, with a rougher charm. They smiled easily, confident.

“Mind if we join you ladies?” the tall one asked, flashing a grin.

Meera was caught off guard but shrugged. “Sure. Just drinks.”

The four of them chatted casually. The guys were clearly flirting—playful, harmless, testing waters. But Meera noticed something. Their eyes kept drifting to Riya. Her.

Her husband.

Finally, Meera asked with a smirk, trying to keep it light, “So… who are you two going to dance with? Me or her?”

The pause was short—but enough.

Both men chuckled. “Her,” said the tall one, nodding at Riya.

Meera’s smile faded slightly.

“Oh come on,” she said, voice cool. “I’m the real girl here.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the broader guy said, raising his glass. “She’s gorgeous.”

Before Meera could say anything more, the tall guy stood, offered a hand to Riya. “Dance?”

Riya hesitated—but something in her stirred. A thrill. She looked at Meera, unsure.

Meera smiled tightly. “Go. Enjoy.”

On the dance floor, the lights were dim, flashing occasionally across faces and shoulders. The guy pulled Riya close, his hands respectful but firm. She let him lead. Her hips swayed with the music. The feel of her padded body moving rhythmically, hair bouncing around her shoulders—it was surreal. She felt feminine. Desired. Real.

Then, his arms snaked around her waist. His mouth brushed her cheek—then lower. A soft kiss on her neck. She shivered.

At the booth, Meera sat frozen. Watching.

She clenched her jaw, fingers gripping the stem of her drink. People saw him—no, her—not as a joke but as a beautiful woman. A sensual woman. Desired more than Meera, who sat alone.

On the drive home, she was silent.

Riya sat in the passenger seat, hair slightly messy, lipstick faintly smudged. Her cheeks glowed, her smile dreamy.

Meera didn’t speak the entire way.

She was proud. And furious. And confused.

That night, as Riya quietly undressed, Meera stood at the wardrobe and pulled out a red silk saree with a gold border—one of her most elegant ones.

She held it up, turned slowly.

“Tomorrow,” she said coldly, “you’re wearing this. With bangles. Bindi. And gajra. We’ll see then who’s the more beautiful woman in this house.”

Riya looked up, surprised.

But Meera had already turned away, her face unreadable.

The next morning, the air in the house was heavy with tension. Raj—now used to responding to “Riya” in private—stood nervously in front of the mirror, still half-asleep in his nightwear. Meera, on the other hand, was wide awake. Controlled. Focused.

“Today is temple day,” she said, tying her hair into a tight bun. “You’ll come with me. Dressed properly. Like the wife you’re becoming.”

Riya blinked. “Temple? Like this? Meera…”

“No arguments,” she snapped, eyes flashing. “You’ve been admired in a dress, pampered in a pub. Time to be respected in a saree.”

She had already called the salon. The same discreet stylists arrived mid-morning, giggling and excited, clearly informed this was a “special temple makeover for two sisters.”

Riya was seated first. Her face was cleansed, toned, and layered with soft, warm tones of makeup—no bold colors this time, only subtle elegance. A light coral lipstick, kajal that curved gently to accentuate her eyes, and a touch of highlighter on the cheekbones.

Her brows were reshaped even more delicately, and the finishing touch was a small red bindi pressed right above the brows.

Then came the hair. Meera had insisted on a traditional look. The stylist braided the long black wig tightly, threading jasmine gajra through it, wrapping it all the way down to the waist. The braid was thick, neat, swaying like a black rope dusted with flowers.

“You look like a newly married bride,” one of the ladies whispered, admiring their own handiwork.

Then came the saree—a rich maroon silk with golden zari work, heavy and luxurious. Riya was draped slowly, petticoat tied tightly around her waist, blouse sleeves brushing delicately against her arms. The pallu was pleated and pinned perfectly, covering her chest yet showing her shape beautifully.

Heavy gold jhumkas hung from her ears. Bangles clinked against her wrists in a chorus. Anklets were added—tiny silver bells that chimed with every nervous step. A mangalsutra was fastened around her neck by Meera herself, her fingers deliberate, slow.

And then, the final mark—sindoor. Meera tilted Riya’s chin up, holding her face still.

She parted the hair gently at the crown and filled the line with deep red sindoor. A bold, unmistakable sign.

“There,” she said coldly. “Now you’re a wife.”

Surprisingly, Riya didn't flinch. Her eyes shimmered in the mirror, and her hands smoothed the pleats of the saree almost instinctively. She looked… serene. Whole.

Meera had chosen a nearly identical saree—royal blue with golden accents. She stood beside Riya in the mirror. Two women. One moment.

But the fire inside her was still burning.

---

The temple was unusually crowded that day. Lines spilled down the steps, the air thick with incense, murmurs, and bells.

They walked slowly, hand-in-hand, bangles singing at every step. Riya kept adjusting her pallu nervously, the heavy braid swaying behind her, gajra scent surrounding her like an invisible halo.

People turned.

Old ladies smiled kindly. Men glanced once and then respectfully looked away. Even younger women whispered quietly, admiring her poise, her grace.

When they reached the sanctum, the priest looked up, and smiled directly at Riya.

“Ayyo, newlyweds?” he asked warmly.

Before either could speak, he handed Riya the pooja thali.

“May you and your husband live a long, happy life,” he blessed, placing kumkum on her forehead. “Such a graceful bride.”

Meera’s fingers froze. Her breath caught.

They sat down on the stone floor for the special archana. And even there, the priest directed everything to Riya. When it was time to circle the lamp, people parted to let “the beautiful newlywed lady” go first.

Riya bowed her head shyly, her braid swaying behind her, bangles clinking, the pleats of her saree brushing the steps.

Meera didn’t speak the whole way back. Not in the car. Not even at home.

Something inside her had shifted. Watching Riya glide through the temple like a goddess—graceful, quiet, womanly—while she herself stood on the sidelines had stung deeper than she admitted.

Everyone saw Riya as the woman. The wife. The bride.

That night, as Riya washed off her makeup in the bathroom, humming softly, Meera sat on the bed, unmoving.

Her jaw clenched. Her eyes narrowed.

She had to be sure.

Riya would stay this way. Not just for a day. Not for a week. For life.

Quietly, she reached for her phone and began searching. Hormones. Legal changes. Permanent steps.

Her decision was made.

Tomorrow, Riya would wake up one step closer to becoming the woman the world already believed she was.

Meera began slowly. At first, it was subtle. She convinced Raj—now more often Riya—to take a long break from office, citing stress and “new energy” needed at home. She even helped him draft the request for permanent work-from-home, promising it would give them more time together.

He agreed, not suspecting anything.

Each morning, Meera prepared his tea, slipping in the tiny crushed hormone pills she’d ordered discreetly. They were tasteless, colorless. With each sip, he unknowingly stepped deeper into womanhood. A part of her knew it was wrong. But another part—the part that burned with jealousy, love, and strange obsession—told her this was right. He looked beautiful this way. She loved this version of him. The world did too.

After a few months, changes began.

His skin softened. His waist thinned, hips subtly widening. His chest began to swell—first barely noticeable, then enough that he started wearing camisoles beneath his kurtis. His face grew rounder, features softer, cheekbones more prominent. A warm flush came to his cheeks naturally now, even without makeup.

He tried to joke once. “I think staying home with you is making me more feminine.”

Meera only smiled. “Maybe that’s what you were meant to be.”

She didn’t allow a haircut—not even a trim. After six months, his hair reached past his shoulders, thick and wavy. She insisted on oiling it twice a week, combing it out, braiding it. Sometimes, when he complained about the heaviness, she would only kiss his forehead and say, “Beauty comes with weight, Riya.”

He rarely protested anymore.

---

Then, the news came.

Meera missed her period. Then another. A test confirmed what she had half-dared to hope.

Pregnant.

She stood in the bathroom, holding the strip, her fingers trembling.

She screamed.

Riya came running, braid swinging, bangles jingling.

“What happened?!”

Meera grabbed his hand and placed it over her stomach. “We’re going to be parents!”

He blinked. “What? How—really?”

Tears welled up in both their eyes. Riya pulled her close. She wasn’t thinking about the hormones or the changes anymore. Not the curves, not the breasts, not the hair. All that mattered was that they were still them—together.

They lit lamps that night, performed a small pooja in the prayer room. Meera wore a simple green saree. Riya wore the soft pink one Meera had given her months ago, hair parted and tied into a loose braid with jasmine. She looked like a woman deeply loved and deeply belonging.

When the priest came the next morning for the formal blessing, Meera made a special request.

“Please bless us both as two women preparing to raise a child. She will care for me like a sister… like a wife.”

The priest, without hesitation, blessed them both.

Riya didn’t protest. She didn’t feel the need to explain or correct. She placed her hand in Meera’s and bowed her head.

That evening, Meera leaned against Riya on the couch, rubbing her stomach.

“I’ll need help. With everything,” she said softly. “The hormones, the moods, the weight…”

Riya nodded. “Of course.”

“Then stay like this. For me. As Riya. As my partner. My woman. At least until the baby comes.”

Riya didn’t answer for a moment. She looked down at her long painted nails, her soft hands, her flowing hair brushing against Meera’s shoulder.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Until the baby comes.”

But Meera smiled faintly, knowing the changes were already too deep.

This wasn’t temporary anymore.

And tomorrow, she would book the next salon visit—with full waxing, reshaping of eyebrows again, and a consultation for something more permanent.

Days blurred into a soft, steady rhythm after Meera’s pregnancy entered its third month. The morning sun filtered into the bedroom gently now, its light falling on two women sleeping side by side—one with a visible bump beneath her nightie, the other with a long, thick braid coiled loosely over her shoulder, her hand resting protectively on her partner’s belly.

Riya had changed. Not just in her appearance, but in her soul.

She no longer rushed to check office emails first thing in the morning. Instead, she woke slowly, brushing her long hair out of her face and walking barefoot to the kitchen in her cotton nightie, braid swinging against her back. Her hair had grown past her waist now, thanks to six months of Meera’s weekly oil massages and careful care. The natural texture was wavy, shiny, and when open, it covered her entire back like a curtain.

Each morning, Meera would lie on the couch with a pillow propped beneath her feet while Riya knelt beside her with a brass bowl of warm coconut oil. She’d gently part her hair, oiling the scalp in straight lines, her fingers slow and practiced. Then she’d massage Meera’s temples, cheeks glowing with devotion. Afterward, she would braid her own hair neatly—three thick strands twisted into one heavy plait, tied with a satin ribbon and often adorned with a string of jasmine Meera insisted on buying every week.

Housework had become Riya’s domain.

After her oil bath and change into a simple cotton saree—always pinned neatly, pleats sharp and perfect—she would light a diya in the pooja room and ring the bell, offering flowers before beginning her day. The sound of her anklets echoed through the home now, delicate and rhythmic.

She cleaned every room, dusting quietly, folding clothes, and arranging things just the way Meera liked them. She no longer thought of it as “helping” or “filling in.” It had become her routine, her role—she was the homemaker now.

In the kitchen, she prepared lunch with ease—vegetable sabzi, dal, soft phulkas, and rice. Her bangles clinked as she stirred, waist slightly arched as she bent over the stove, saree wrapped around her like second skin. The heat didn’t bother her anymore; the mirror above the sink always showed a glowing woman—hair braided, sindoor neatly in place, mangalsutra glinting softly.

By afternoon, she would sit near Meera with a steel plate of cut fruits and gently feed her while massaging her swollen feet. Meera had grown used to this treatment. She expected it now—the soft towel to rest her legs, the gentle circular rubs, the way Riya looked at her stomach and smiled with soft wonder.

“Do you ever miss your old life?” Meera asked one afternoon, watching Riya fold the baby clothes they had begun collecting.

Riya paused. “Sometimes… but not really. This feels more real.”

“You look… completely like a wife now. I don’t think anyone who sees you would guess otherwise.”

Riya looked down at her hands—softer now, nails painted a pale pink. Her arms had grown slender, her chest full under the blouse. The waist of her saree now gripped gently curved hips, and when she walked, there was a natural sway. Her voice had softened over time, her mannerisms quieter. There was no need to pretend anymore.

“I know,” she said softly. “I don’t feel like I’m acting.”

That evening, Meera made her wear a silk saree—a soft gold one with green borders—for a visit to the temple again. Riya’s waist-length hair was braided tightly and adorned with two full strings of jasmine. Her ears were decorated with heavy gold jhumkas, her wrists filled with green and gold glass bangles. A golden waistband hugged her hips beneath the saree, subtly shaping the pleats.

The priest greeted them warmly again. This time, there was no hesitation.

“Two beautiful wives of this house,” he smiled, handing both women a thali. “Your child will be born with great blessings.”

As they walked back home under the streetlights, Meera glanced sideways.

“After the baby comes… you’ll stay like this?”

Riya nodded slowly, braid brushing against her lower back. “Yes. I think this is who I was always meant to be.”