I am Lakshmi to my Vishnu

I was the fair one. That is what everyone said first, before my name.

In our house in Alappuzha, with the small courtyard where the curry leaves grew and the afternoon rain made everything smell of wet earth, there were four of us. My mother, my two older sisters, and my grandma. I was the only boy. And I was the fairest. Not just fair like my father who worked in the Gulf, but fair like my sisters, milky, soft. My sisters would pinch my cheek and say, "You got our fairness, you should have been our sister."

We were middle class, which meant one bathroom, one steel almirah for all clothes, and evenings where all three of us kids sat on one mat for tuition. My sisters were already learning to be women. I watched them more than I studied. The sound of their glass bangles when they wrote, the way they oiled each other's long hair on Sunday mornings with coconut oil that smelled warm and sweet, the way they fixed their dupattas even inside the house.

My grandma raised me more than anyone. At night, when the power went off and the small oil lamp was lit, she would tell stories. Not of wars, but of wives. She showed me a faded calendar photo of Lakshmi sitting at Vishnu's feet, pressing his legs. "See how she sits, mole? That is love. A wife protects the house by taking care of her husband's tiredness." Another picture, Ganesha's wives Riddhi and Siddhi, sitting close to his feet. "A woman's place is not below, it is near, so she can hear if her family needs her."

I didn't hear it like religion. I heard it like a desire.

I started to imagine myself there. Not as Vishnu. As Lakshmi. Sitting at someone's feet, pressing his legs after a long day, wearing a cotton saree that brushed the floor, with jasmine in my hair. I imagined having a small house, a child sleeping on my hip, waiting for a man to come home, making him kanji, watching him eat. Loving his kids, raising them, sacrificing my own sleep. The kind of love my mother said Kerala girls have, which is why they all become nurses, because they know how to care.

It became a strange, soft feeling inside me. A heaviness in my chest that was not pain.

I was short. Slim. My body was weak, my wrists were thin like my sisters'. When I looked in the steel almirah mirror after bathing, wearing only my lungi, I didn't see a boy who would become a big man. I saw someone fair, small, sweet-faced, with eyes that looked better with kajal. My sisters had once, as a joke, put a small black bindi on my forehead when I was sleeping. I woke up, saw it in the mirror, and my heart beat so fast I didn't take it off for an hour.

Next to my tuition class, in the small lane that went to the temple pond, there was a house. I had seen it for months but never noticed. A man lived there. Everyone called him Suresh ettan. He was not old, maybe 32, good looking in a quiet way, the kind of man who wears clean white shirts even at home. His wife had died last year, right after giving birth. Everyone in the lane said it in whispers. "Pavam, wife died, left a small baby."

I started noticing him because of the baby. In the evenings, when my tuition sir was shouting tables, I would hear a baby crying from that house, and then I would hear him. His voice was low, trying to sing a Malayalam lullaby, off-tune, tired. He would come out to the small veranda with the baby on his shoulder, patting its back. He looked so tired, his shirt crumpled.

One day my sisters were talking about him. "That baby needs a mother. That man needs a wife. He is alone."

That night I couldn't sleep. I kept seeing that picture again - Lakshmi at the feet. Only this time, the feet were his. I imagined myself in that house, not in my lungi but in a simple nighty or a set mundu, my hair long and oiled, with a small red bindi, holding that baby on my hip the way my sisters hold pillows. I imagined making him hot chaya when he comes home, pressing his legs because he stands all day at his small shop, putting my head on his lap.

It was not a sexual thought. It was deeper. I wanted to be someone's wife. I wanted to care, to nurture, to be needed, to sacrifice. I wanted to be the reason a house felt warm.

My body was already built for it, I thought. Fair, short, slim, soft voice. God had made a mistake and put me in a boy's body.

Yesterday, my tuition sir said, "That Suresh ettan's baby is sick. I didn't think. I took the small steel dabba of rasam my mother had made, and the leftover thoran, packed it in a cover. My hands were shaking.

I looked at the mirror in the hall before I left. My hair was combed, my face washed, I had put a little of my sister's talc powder so I looked fresher. I was still in my boy's shirt and jeans, but I was holding food like a wife would.

I was going to see him for the first time. Not from the tuition window, but at his door.

I am nineteen. Finished plus two, waiting for my degree admission, which is why I still go to the evening tuition - more out of habit than need. That matters because I could go alone. I could stay out. No one would call me a child.

His gate was half open. The small house smelled of boiled rice water and baby powder and something sour, like clothes left wet too long. The veranda had one plastic chair and a small bucket with baby clothes soaking in blue water.

I stood with the dabba and my heart was beating in my throat. I had never gone to a man's house like this. In Kerala, boys don't carry rasam to another man's house.

He opened the door holding the baby on his left shoulder. He was in a faded lungi and vest, his hair not combed, eyes tired. He looked surprised to see me.

"Sir, I am from tuition next lane," I said, my voice came out so soft. "My mother made rasam, I thought... baby... you must not have cooked."

He looked at the cover, then at me. "You are Leela's son, no? The fair one with two sisters?"

He remembered me.

I nodded. I couldn't look at his eyes for long. I looked at the baby instead. So small, eyes closed, wearing a too-big yellow frock that was clearly his dead wife's choice. The baby smelled of milk and sweat.

"You come inside," he said, because he was that kind of man, polite even when tired.

Inside, the house was what my grandma would call a house without a woman. Bed not made, one small kitchen with steel vessels piled, a small cradle with a mosquito net, and on the wall, a garlanded photo of a woman smiling. His wife. She was beautiful. She had long hair and a big red bindi.

I felt a strange jealousy and a strange closeness to her at the same time.

I kept the dabba on the table. He tried to put the baby down to open it but the baby started crying the second its back touched the cradle. That high, hungry cry.

"Give her to me," I said, before I could think. "I... my sisters taught me."

He hesitated, then gave her to me. She was so light. Warm. Her small head fit in my palm. I had held my sisters' dolls, but this was different. She was breathing, alive, trusting.

I started swaying automatically, the way I had seen my sisters sway, one hand under her head, one patting her back softly. I hummed the same lullaby my grandma used to hum to me, "Aararo... aariraro..." My voice was thin, sweet, not manly at all. And she became quiet. Her small fist caught my shirt.

Suresh ettan looked at me like he had seen something he had forgotten.

"She stopped," he whispered.

That one sentence did something to me. My whole body felt warm. I wanted to cry.

I stayed that evening for one hour. I washed the soaked baby clothes in that blue bucket, wringing them the way my mother taught my sisters, not the way boys wring. I heated the rasam. I fed him rice while he held the baby, because he hadn't eaten since morning. He said, "You don't have to do this."

I said, "I can come tomorrow also. For baby. After my tuition. She likes me."

That was my lie and my truth. I told him I will keep coming for the baby. Inside, I knew I wanted to come for him. To be the person who waits when he comes home. To be his wife.

He said, "If you have time, come. I have shop from 10 to 6. Baby stays with me, I keep her in a small cot in the shop, but it is difficult."

So the routine started.

Every evening, 6:30 to 8:30, I went to his house. I didn't tell my mother everything, I said I am helping tuition sir's neighbor. My mother, who always said Kerala girls are caring because they are taught to nurture, just said, "Good, help him, pavam."

I started learning his house. Where he keeps sugar, how much salt he puts, that the baby likes to sleep only when you press her legs very softly, that Suresh ettan rubs his own calves at night because his shop needs standing all day.

I would sit on the floor mat and press his daughter's small legs, and sometimes when he said "my legs are paining", I would say without looking up, "Shall I press, ettan?" The first time he said no, awkward. The second time he said, "Just a little," and I sat near his feet, in my boy's pants, and pressed his calves through his lungi. My hands are soft, small, fair. He closed his eyes. That image - me at his feet, him relaxing - was exactly my grandma's calendar photo. Only I was Lakshmi.

I started feeling girly without wearing a girl's dress. I started walking softer in his house. Fixing my hair before entering his gate, checking my face in my phone camera. Brushing my hair more, letting it grow a little longer, applying a little of my sister's coconut jasmine oil so it smelled sweet when I swayed the baby.

Two weeks passed like that.

Then my family said they are going to my mother's sister's house in Thrissur for four days for a temple function. My sisters were excited, packing sarees. My mother said, "You come also, you are always at tuition."

And I heard myself say a lie so smoothly it scared me.

"You all go. My degree entrance coaching starts, I can't miss. I will stay at tuition sir's house, he said I can stay there."

My mother believed me because I was the good, fair, soft boy who never lied.

But I was not going to tuition sir's house.

I went to his gate that evening, baby on my hip like I had started carrying her, and I said to Suresh ettan,

"My family went to Thrissur. Four days. I am alone at home. Can I... can I stay here? For baby? So you don't have to take her to shop? I will cook, clean, look after her. You can go to shop peacefully."

He looked at me, at the baby sleeping on my shoulder, at my face which was nervous, excited, vulnerable, wanting to be asked to stay.

He was quiet for a long time, then said, "The small room is empty. You can keep your things there. Only if you are comfortable."

I was more than comfortable. I was finally being asked to be a wife.

He gave me the small room. It was not really a room, it was the storeroom next to the kitchen, with one small window that looked at the temple pond. There was a single mat on the floor, a small steel almirah, and in the corner, two big plastic covers full of clothes.

Baby was already asleep in the cradle in the main room. He had given her milk and she had slept, her small mouth open, her fists closed. Suresh ettan said, "I will go to market quickly, get some milk powder, you... you settle, okay?" and he left with his keys.

I was alone in his house for the first time.

I sat on the mat and I looked around. The house was quiet except for the baby's small breathing and the fan making a soft noise. I felt it suddenly, in my chest, not in my head. This is my house. Or it will be. The kind of feeling a wife must feel when she first enters her husband's house after marriage.

I wanted to know where everything is, so I can keep it neat. I am like that. My sisters always said I keep my corner more neatly than them.

I scanned slowly. The kitchen had two shelves. Top shelf - steel dabbas with rice, dal, sugar. Bottom - oil, salt, chili powder, all half open, a little spilled. The sink had two days of vessels. The main room had his shirts on a rope, baby's clothes on another rope, and in the steel almirah, his things and her things together.

The almirah was open a little. Inside, on one side, his white shirts, lungis. On the other side, folded neatly, untouched for months, were her sarees.

I didn't mean to open it. My hand just went.

They were Kerala cotton sarees, off-white with golden kasavu border, the kind my mother wears for temple, and two or three chiffon ones, light pink, light blue. I touched the edge of one. It was so soft from washing so many times, softer than any of my sisters' new sarees. I lifted it a little and smelled it. It still smelled of her, faintly, of baby powder and jasmine oil and that sweet smell that all women who wear saree daily have. It was lovely. Not sexy, just... motherly. Wife-ly. The smell of someone who took care of this house before me.

I folded it exactly how it was and closed the almirah. My hands were shaking, not from doing something wrong, but from wanting. I wanted a saree like that. I wanted to be the person whose saree smells like that for him.

Then I started cleaning. I couldn't help it. I took the broom and swept the kitchen floor, collected the rice grains, the small pieces of thread. I took the vessels to the sink and washed them one by one, with the small steel scrub, the way my mother taught me, not splashing. The water was cold, my fair hands became red, my bangles - no, my sisters' bangles I sometimes wear at home - were not there, but I could hear them in my head, the small clink they make when you wash vessels.

I wiped the kitchen platform with a wet cloth, arranged the dabbas neatly, closed the salt cover. The kitchen started smelling clean.

I heard the gate. He came back with a cover of milk and bread and some beans.

He saw the kitchen and stopped.

"You cleaned?" he said.

I stood there, in my t-shirt and jeans, hands still wet, hair falling on my forehead because I had been bending, and I said, "You were at shop all day, you must be tired, ettan. You rest. Today, can I cook? Please?"

He looked like he wanted to say no, because in Kerala a boy doesn't cook in another man's house, but he was so tired.

He sat on the plastic chair in the veranda, his lungi pulled up a little, pressing his own calves with his hands. I remembered my grandma's photo.

In the kitchen, I tried my best. I made soft white rice, a little dal with more water because his baby needed kanji water, and a simple beans thoran the way my mother makes. I cut the beans unevenly, my hands were not fast, but I put a little coconut, a little love. The kitchen filled with the smell of dal boiling, the sound of mustard seeds popping in hot oil.

It was not perfect. The dal was a little salty, the thoran was a little less cooked. But when I served him on a steel plate, on the floor mat, with a small glass of water near his feet, the way my mother serves my father when he comes from Gulf, he ate.

He ate with his head down. And I saw his eyes had tears.

I knew why. It was not because dal was salty. It was because after one year of eating alone, or eating at hotels, someone had cooked for him in his own house again. Someone had waited for him to come from market. Someone had served him.

That is what my grandma said a wife does. She protects the family not by fighting, but by feeding.

He didn't speak. He just ate everything and said, "It was good, thank you," in a low voice.

Baby woke up and cried once, I picked her up, swayed her, gave her a little warm water, and she slept again on my shoulder.

He slept early, on the big bed in the main room, with the baby's cradle next to him. He slept silently, on his side, one hand hanging down, tired.

I went to my small room. I spread the mat. The window was open and the night air from the pond came in, smelling of jasmine from some house nearby. I could hear his soft snoring and the baby's breathing from the other room.

I lay down in my boy's clothes, but in my mind I was in one of those soft kasavu sarees from the almirah, with a small bindi, with jasmine in my long hair, sleeping in the next room as his wife, listening if baby cries.

I slept like that, as a wife sleeps, one ear open for her family.

I woke up before the alarm. Before him. Before the baby.

It was 5:10. The temple pond outside was still dark, the crows had not started. In my small room, on the mat, I was awake with a feeling I had never felt as a boy - that I have to get up before everyone, or the house will not start.

I went to the outside veranda with the small broom. It had dried leaves, dust from the market road. I swept it quickly, quietly, so I don't wake him. My lungi was folded up to my knees, my fair legs were visible, cold from morning air. I took the small white powder my mother uses for kolam and made a tiny, quick rangoli near the door - just four dots and a small flower, not big, so the neighbour aunty who always looks over won't see and ask questions. A wife makes rangoli before her husband wakes, my grandma used to say, to bring Lakshmi inside.

Then I bathed. The bathroom was small, cold water from a bucket. I poured it over my head and I stayed there a little longer than boys do. I washed my hair with his baby's small shampoo that smelled of milk, because I didn't have anything else, and it made my hair so soft, smelling sweet. After bath, I looked in the small cracked mirror above the sink. My face was fresh, my hair wet and falling on my forehead, my skin pink from cold water. I took a little coconut oil, just a drop, and rubbed it on my hair ends, the way my sisters do. I didn't have a bindi, but I had my sister's small black kajal pencil in my bag, I always carry it now. I put a tiny dot of kajal at the corner of my eyes, just a little, so I look fresh, not like a boy who just woke up.

Then breakfast. I made puttu and kadala, the way my mother makes for us, but my puttu was breaking, not perfect. I pressed it with my small hands, steaming hot, my fingers burning a little, but I liked that burn. It felt like wife's burn. I packed his tiffin in the steel dabba - rice, thoran from last night, a little curd, and a small spoon.

He woke up at 7, hearing the baby make a small noise. He came out in his lungi, hair messy, and saw the veranda clean, the small rangoli, the smell of puttu, and me standing in the kitchen in my wet hair, wearing my t-shirt but with a small towel tucked like my mother tucks her saree pallu when she cooks.

He was surprised. "Why are you doing all this? I told you just be with baby, that is enough."

I came to him, holding the dabba, my hands still a little wet, and I said what I had practiced in my mind all morning, "No, ettan. You also need care. Baby only has you. If you don't eat properly, who will take care of her?"

He looked at me for two seconds, then he smiled. A real smile, not the tired one. His eyes became soft.

He got ready quickly, took bath, wore a clean white shirt for shop. I gave him the dabba, and I fixed his shirt collar a little, like wives do in serials, without thinking. He didn't stop me.

He went to the gate with his shop keys, baby still sleeping inside, and he said, "Take care of baby... and you too."

And you too.

Those two words. You too. He said it like I was his family. Like I was someone to be taken care of.

I was on heaven. I stood at the gate till his bike sound went away, my wet hair dripping on my t-shirt, holding the edge of my towel like a pallu.

The whole day I took care of baby. She is so small, but she knows. She didn't cry much with me. I gave her kanji water, I washed her small frocks, I swayed her singing that Aararo song, my bangles - I had bought a small pair of thin glass bangles from the shop near tuition, red color, I wore them today under my shirt sleeves, they made a tiny sound when I patted her. I loved that sound. I pressed her small legs softly, like Lakshmi.

At 1 pm, my phone buzzed. It was him. He sent a selfie from his shop, sitting on his small stool, steel dabba open in front of him, rice half eaten. He wrote, "Tiffin was tasty. Thank you."

He was happy. In the photo, he looked less tired.

Baby was happy too with me. She slept on my chest in the afternoon, her small breath on my neck, her milk smell on my t-shirt. I felt like a mother. Like a wife who is mother.

He came home at 7:30. I was waiting. I had cleaned again, I had made chammanthi and rice, I had lit the small lamp near the photo of his wife, not because I had to, but because I felt this house needs a woman's lamp daily.

He sat to eat, I served him water near his feet, I sat a little far but where he can see me. After dinner, he was pressing his own calves again, tired from standing.

Today, he looked at me and said, "Will you... will you press? Only if you don't mind."

My heart beat so loud the baby could have heard it.

I came and sat at his feet, on the floor mat, my glass bangles making that soft clink when I moved. His legs were hard, tired, hairy, man's legs. My hands are soft, fair, small, with thin bangles. I pressed them slowly, with coconut oil, the way my grandma told, from ankle to knee. He closed his eyes, his head back on the chair.

That moment. Me at his feet, in my small room, with baby sleeping next to us, my wet hair now dry and smelling of milk shampoo, my kajal a little smudged, my hands serving his tiredness.

I felt I was his wife. Not becoming. I was.

After some time he touched my head lightly, not in a wrong way, just his palm on my head, saying thank you without words.

He said, "Go sleep, you must be tired too."

We both slept. He in his room with baby, I in my small room, but with the door open between, so if baby cries, I can hear.

And I slept like a wife sleeps, with oil on my hands and rangoli at the door and a man's thank you on my head.

Next morning I followed the same routine, like a wife follows. It was becoming my routine, not his.

I woke at 5, swept the veranda, small rangoli, bath with cold water, kajal dot, puttu. He took tiffin, said "you too" again, went to shop. I lived for that "you too".

After he left, I bathed the baby. She is so small, I poured warm water with a small mug, she laughed, her fair legs kicking. I gave her milk, a little kanji water, she became sleepy, her eyes slow. I put her in the cradle, patted her back, hummed Aararo, and she slept, one fist open near her mouth, breathing soft.

The house became quiet. Only fan sound and my glass bangles sound when I moved.

And then it came, the urge. So strong it was not urge, it was like thirst.

In the small room, the steel almirah was there. Her sarees were there. And behind the plastic covers, I had seen yesterday something else - a long hair wig, old, maybe hers or her sister's, kept in a cover, black, long, with a little curl at bottom.

My heart started beating fast. My hands became sweaty.

I thought, just once. Just to see.

I took the off-white kasavu cotton saree, the softest one that smelled of jasmine. I had watched my mother and sisters drape it a thousand times. I knew the steps in my head, but my hands didn't know.

I removed my t-shirt and jeans, folded them neatly, and stood in my underwear in that small room, fair, slim, thin wrists, feeling so vulnerable, so seen even though no one was seeing. The morning light from the small window fell on my body.

I tied the petticoat - it was hers, maroon color, a little loose on my thin waist, I had to tie it tight. Then the saree. First tuck at right side, then pleats. My fingers were shaking, the pleats were not equal, some big, some small, but I pressed them. Then tucked them in front. Then pallu over left shoulder. The cotton touched my bare chest, my back, my legs. It was so soft, so cool, and it brushed my skin everywhere when I moved. The kasavu border shone a little gold.

Then the wig. I put it on. It was long, till my waist, black, with soft waves. Heavy. When I put it, my neck suddenly felt covered, warm. The hair fell on my back, on my shoulders, on my blouse - I had worn a small pink blouse of hers that was a little tight on me, the hooks at back I couldn't close fully, so I left one open.

I looked in the small cracked mirror above the sink.

And I stopped breathing.

It was not a boy in saree. It was a woman. A small, fair, short, thin woman, with long black hair, kajal eyes, wearing an off-white kasavu saree with gold border, pallu a little messy, blouse a little tight, standing in a small storeroom.

I touched my hair, brushed it with my fingers, the way my sisters do, tucking it behind ear. I heard the soft sound of the saree when I moved, shhh, like leaves. I fixed the bindi - I had a small red bindi from my bag, I put it between my brows. My glass bangles clinked when I raised my hand to fix my hair. I managed my pallu, pulled it up a little, then let it fall. I walked two steps in the room, small steps, because saree doesn't allow big boy steps. My anklets - I had no anklets, but I imagined their sound.

I was lost in that mirror. That mirror has seen me as a boy for three days, now it saw me as his wife.

Then baby cried. Loud, suddenly.

I panicked, I didn't even think to change. I ran in saree, pallu flying, long hair bouncing on my back, to the cradle. I picked her up, my saree pleats coming a little loose, my bangles clinking loudly now. I swayed, I patted, I whispered, "Aararo mole, amma is here," and the word amma came out of my mouth naturally, like I had waited all my life to say it. She became calm, smelling my hair, my saree. I sat on the floor with her on my chest, in saree, and without knowing, I slept, tired, holding her.

I don't know how long I slept.

Then the gate sound. Bike. He came early today, 5:30.

I woke up with baby on my chest, still in saree, hair messed, bindi a little shifted.

The door knocked.

I, still half sleepy, went and opened the door, in that saree, in that wig, with baby on my hip.

He was there with his shop bag. He saw me and his eyes became big. He suddenly shut the door and stood silent in the hall outside, breathing heavy.

My heart fell. I thought he will shout.

I said, my voice shaking, in my thin, sweet voice, "Ettan, baby was crying, I... I was experimenting, I just wanted to see... I didn't mean..."

He didn't speak. Then he opened the door slowly again and looked. Not at the saree first, at the baby. Baby was calm, sleeping on my hip, her small hand holding my kasavu border, so peaceful, like she had found her mother.

Then he looked at me. At my long hair, at my bindi, at my bangles clinking, at my pleats that had come loose, at my face which was scared and hopeful.

His eyes had tears.

He came forward, one step, and hugged me suddenly. Baby between us, safe. His hand on my wig, on my long hair, not in a wrong way, in a way a husband hugs his wife after a long day.

He whispered softly, near my ear, where my jasmine hair was, "Can you stay rest two days as my wife? Not as helper. As wife. For baby... and for me?"

I said happily, my eyes full of tears, my bindi touching his shirt, "Yes, ettan. I will. I want to."

That evening, we went out, all three. Me, still in saree, with a shawl over my blouse to cover the open hook, long hair tied with a small clip, baby on my hip. He took us to the small market near the temple pond.

We bought bangles, red and white glass bangles that make sound, a small pack of red bindis, kajal, a small gajra of jasmine for my long hair, and a pair of small silver anklets that make a soft sound when I walk.

The shop aunty said, "Your wife is so fair and pretty, chetta, like Lakshmi."

He smiled and said, "Yes."

And I, wearing anklets for the first time, hearing them go chil when I walked with baby on my hip and gajra in my long hair, felt I had finally come home.

For two days, I was not a boy helping. I was the wife, the mother of the house.

No one saw me, really. I stayed inside. Early morning I woke at 5, swept the veranda, put the small rangoli, made it a little bigger now because no one had told me not to. I bathed, and now I bathed like a woman. I had my own soap, my own coconut oil, the red bangles I bought that day clinked on my wrists even when I poured water. I wore the kasavu saree daily, draped better now, pleats equal, pallu pinned neatly with a small safety pin on my shoulder so it doesn't fall when I carry baby. I wore the long wig, brushed it every morning with my sisters' small comb, oiled the ends, put the jasmine gajra Suresh ettan bought, small white flowers that made my long hair smell so sweet when I moved.

I learned small things no boy knows. How to sit in saree - legs to one side, pleats covering, pallu on lap. How to walk in the kitchen without stepping on the saree end. How to fix my bindi in the cracked mirror when it tilts. How to hear my own anklets - chil, chil - when I walk fast to the cradle. How to manage pallu when baby pulls it.

I took care of everything. I washed baby clothes, his shirts, my sarees in the same bucket, hanging them on the rope together, his white shirt next to my off-white saree, like husband-wife clothes. I made breakfast, packed tiffin, made lunch that I kept hot in a steel dabba, evening chaya with biscuits, night kanji and thoran. The house started smelling of good food, of coconut oil, of jasmine, not of sour wet clothes.

Neighbours started suspecting. I heard later. Because for one year that house had no rangoli, no food smell, no woman's sound. Now there was a small white flower rangoli daily in front, there was smell of puttu in morning, fish fry in afternoon, there was a woman's soft lullaby in evening, and Suresh ettan was going to shop without baby on his shoulder, wearing clean ironed shirts, looking more happy after so many months, his face not tired.

That second day afternoon, when baby was sleeping after bath and food, I was arranging the almirah, folding her sarees and his lungis together, keeping my bangles neatly in a small box, my long hair open, loose, touching my back, gajra fresh, red bindi, glass bangles, anklets. I was so involved I didn't hear the gate.

Then knock. Loud. Aunty's voice. "Suresh? Suresh? Are you inside?"

My heart stopped. It was the neighbour aunty who always looks over, the one who talks to everyone.

I gathered courage. I thought, if I am his wife for two days, a wife opens the door.

I pulled my pallu over my head a little, the way my mother does when elders come, fixed my bangles so they don't make too much sound, and opened the door.

She came inside immediately, without waiting, checking. She looked at me from top to bottom. My long black hair with gajra, my red bindi, my kajal eyes, my fair face, my kasavu saree draped properly, my bangles, my anklets, baby sleeping in cradle behind me, house clean, smell of sambar.

She took time to recognize me. She knew me as Leela's fair son, the thin boy from tuition lane. Now she saw a woman, small, fair, pretty, with long hair, standing as mother of this house.

"Suresh's...?" she started.

I lowered my eyes like my sisters do when elders speak, and said softly, "I am... I am looking after baby, aunty."

She came closer, saw my face properly, and she understood. She didn't shout. She touched my long hair, touched my bangle, and said, "Pavam, you are doing good thing. This house needed a woman. Baby needed a mother."

She was thankful for doing this. She didn't say I was doing wrong.

Even though she didn't tell anyone directly, in a small town like ours, you don't need to tell. By evening, Suresh ettan came home from shop and said, "Today three people in shop asked me if I married again secretly and kept my wife at home. They said they saw rangoli and heard baby is happy."

Rumours spread in town that Suresh married a woman and kept it secret. That his new wife is very fair, small, looks like Lakshmi, takes care of baby like own.

That night was my last day. My family was coming back tomorrow morning from Thrissur.

Night came. Baby slept early, full stomach, after I pressed her small legs and sang Aararo. The house was quiet.

He and I slept in the main room. Not because we had to, but because for two days we had been sleeping like that - baby's cradle in middle, he on one side on the bed, me on the other side on a mat, both in the same room, so we can hear baby. Only tonight, I was wearing the pink chiffon saree, my best one, with loose long hair, gajra still fresh, red bangles, small anklets. I had put a little talc powder, a little kajal, a little lip tint my sister left, and my bindi was bright red.

We were sleeping, I was half asleep, hearing my anklets when I turned, feeling my saree pallu soft on my chest, my long hair spread on the mat, feeling like a real wife sleeping near her husband after doing whole day's work.

Then I heard it. People. Outside the house. Soft voices, torch light flickering through the window. Footsteps on veranda. Whispering.

Someone had come to the house, at night, to see if the rumour is true, to see Suresh's secret wife.

There were many people. Not one or two. Torch lights moving outside our small gate, slippers sound on the veranda, whispers.

I woke up first, because a wife wakes first when she hears sound near house. I was still in the pink chiffon saree, my long hair loose, spread on the mat, gajra a little wilted now, red bangles on my wrists, anklets on my feet, bindi still there, a little faded. Baby was sleeping in cradle, Suresh ettan was sleeping on the bed, his white vest, his tired face finally peaceful after many months.

Then the gate opened loudly and I heard my mother's voice. "Suresh? Suresh? My son said he is staying here -"

My parents had come back early from Thrissur. They came with the neighbour aunty, and with two more uncles from our lane, and with the temple committee man who always makes decisions.

They entered, and saw me.

I stood up quickly in saree, trying to manage my pallu, my long hair falling forward, my bangles clinking loudly in the silent house. I pulled my pallu over my head like a new bride does when elders come.

All gathered at the door, looking. Many of them didn't believe it was me, because I was so convincing. In that pink saree, with long hair till waist, kajal, bindi, bangles, anklets, fair skin glowing in the yellow bulb light, baby's cradle behind me, I looked like a small, new mother, like a wife. Not like Leela's fair son.

Only because of my fair skin, my mother came to know. She knows every mole on my body. She saw the small mole near my neck that she always says is my beauty mark, and she said, "Monu?"

My mother came near and started crying. Not shouting. Crying like mothers cry when they see something they didn't expect but they understand.

I held her hands, my glass bangles touching her old bangles, my long hair touching her shoulder when I bent, and I said, my voice breaking, soft, sweet, like a daughter's voice, "Amma, this is what I wanted from so many years. Since grandma told stories. I don't want to be a boy who goes to Gulf. I want to be someone's wife. I want to take care of a house, a child, a husband. Please, Amma, let me be his wife. I am happy here. I have never been this happy."

She cried more, holding my saree pallu, smelling my gajra.

Then Suresh ettan woke up, heard. For the first time he heard me say it clearly, that I want to be his wife, not just helper. He came and stood behind me, in his lungi, and for the first time he protected me like a husband protects his wife in front of villagers.

He said, his voice not loud but firm, "I want to be with her. She took care of my baby like own mother. She kept my house like wife. I was dead after my wife died. She made me alive again. If you have problem, tell me, not her."

My father came then. He had come with them, quiet till now. He looked at me in saree, at my long hair, at my bangles, at baby sleeping peacefully, at Suresh ettan standing behind me. He came and put his hand on my head, over my wig, over my gajra, and said, "My son was always soft, always fair, always liked sisters' things. I thought he will change. But if he is happy as daughter, I have three daughters now, not two. I support."

My sisters came running, they had heard rumour in lane. They saw me and they didn't even cry, they said, "You look so pretty, chechi," and hugged me, my pallu between us.

All villagers were there, in our small veranda, seeing a boy in saree who looked exactly like a woman, who cooked, cleaned, pressed a man's legs, mothered a baby.

Then the temple committee man said what old people say in our place when they don't know what to do but they want to make things right. He said, "Only one solution is there. People already think Suresh married secretly. Baby needs mother. Girl - I mean, boy - wants to be wife. Suresh wants her. So tomorrow, she has to marry Suresh. In temple. Properly. Then no one will talk."

I woke up as a bride.

Not as a boy who is going to marry, as a bride who has waited all her life to be a bride. My dream that started with my grandma's stories of Lakshmi at Vishnu's feet, that feeling of wanting to be someone's wife, to care, to nurture, to sacrifice, to be needed - it was coming true today.

All ladies helped me to be ready. My small storeroom was now a bride's room.

My mother came early morning, eyes swollen from crying last night, but smiling. She brought her small steel jewellery box, the one she was saving for my sisters. She said, "I have three daughters now. This is for my youngest." She gave me her small gold chain with a tiny Lakshmi pendant, her old jhumkas that have small pearls, and a pair of red and white bangles that are thicker than glass, real wedding bangles. When she put the chain around my neck, her hands shaking, touching my fair neck, my long hair, she cried. "You were always fair like me, mole, now you look like me when I married."

My sisters fixed my hair. They removed the old wig and brushed my real hair, which I had grown a little long in last weeks, and then they fixed the long black wig so neatly, parted in middle, with a small puff at front, with the jasmine gajra fresh and white, smelling so strong that the whole room smelled of wedding. They put extra jasmine near my bun, they put kajal thicker today, dark and winged, they put a big red bindi, not small, bridal bindi, round, bright. They put red lipstick, just a little, blotted with tissue so it looks natural, and they fixed my saree.

This time it was not her old cotton saree. It was a new one Suresh ettan bought, off-white and red Kerala kasavu saree, with thick golden border, brand new, soft but crisp. My sister draped it, pleats perfect, each pleat equal, tucked tightly at my thin waist, pallu with golden border falling over my left shoulder, pinned with my mother's pearl pin. The blouse was new, red, with small golden work, back hooks, and this time it fit me properly, because it was stitched for my slim, weak body. When I moved, the silk made a soft sound, shhh, and my bangles - my mother's bangles plus the red glass bangles - clinked, and my new silver anklets, chil chil, made sound even when I took small steps.

They made me look in the mirror. The same cracked mirror above the sink where I first saw myself in saree.

I didn't see a boy trying. I saw a wife. A small, fair, short, sweet-faced wife, with long black hair with gajra, red bindi, jhumkas touching my cheeks, gold chain on my fair neck, red blouse, kasavu saree, bangles, anklets. My eyes had tears but my kajal didn't smudge.

The wedding happened very happily in the small temple near the pond. All were happy. Suresh ettan wore a new white shirt and mundu, he looked so good, so clean, his eyes not tired today. He tied the small thaali around my neck, his hands touching my neck, my long hair. The priest said mantras, my mother cried, my father put his hand on my head over my gajra, baby was there on my sister's hip, wearing a new small frock, clapping.

When we came back, there was a small ritual while going inside his house, this time as woman of the house and his wife. My mother said, "Right foot first, mole." I lifted my saree pallu a little, showing my anklets and my fair feet with red alta that my sisters had put, and I kicked the small rice pot kept at the door, and entered. The same house I had swept as helper, I was entering as wife. The same veranda where I made small rangoli, now it had a big flower rangoli my sisters made for me. I felt so emotional, my long hair, my bangles, my thaali touching my chest, I was finally inside as his.

All went after lunch. My sisters stayed some time, helped clean, then they also went, hugging me, saying "chechi, take care of baby."

Evening came. Baby slept early, after I fed her and sang Aararo, her small hand holding my golden border, sleeping peacefully in cradle, like she knew her mother will not leave now.

The house became quiet. Only me and Suresh.

I was sitting on the bed, in my bridal kasavu saree, loose long hair with gajra a little wilted now, jhumkas, bangles, thaali, anklets, red bindi, waiting the way my grandma said wives wait.

He came closer, sat near me, smelled of jasmine from my hair.

He didn't say much. He touched my long hair, fixed it behind my ear, touched my bangle, touched my thaali.

Then he hugged me. Tight, like a husband hugs his wife after long wait. My saree pallu crushed between us, my bangles pressed against his shirt, my gajra flowers pressed.

And he gave me a long lip kiss. Soft, slow, loving, his hands in my long hair, my hands holding his shirt, my anklets still.

I am finally a loving wife. A caring mother. Desirable to a man in every way a wife is desirable - not for body, but for love, for care, for being there.

I slept that night in his arms, in saree and loose hair, hearing baby breathe, hearing my bangles when I turned, feeling his hand on my head, feeling I am where I always wanted to be - at his feet, near his heart, as his wife.

A normal routine started. Not normal like before. Normal like I had imagined since I was a small boy sitting on the mat while grandma told stories.

Now I wake up at 5. Before anyone. Before Suresh ettan, before baby. I am the wife, so I have to wake first.

I sweep the veranda in my nighty, then I make a big rangoli, not small anymore, big white flower with red border, so the neighbour aunty smiles now instead of suspecting. Then I bathe. I bathe like a woman bathes, slowly, with the small bucket, pouring warm water over my long hair, washing it with coconut shampoo that smells of milk, oiling the ends, putting my red bangles on the side so they don't get wet but they still clink when I move. After bath, I stand in front of that same cracked mirror, my mirror, that has seen me as boy, as helper, as bride.

Now I get ready as wife. I wear a cotton saree daily, off-white kasavu or light pink chiffon, pleats tucked tightly at my thin waist, pallu pinned neatly on my left shoulder with my mother's pearl pin. I wear my blouse, red or pink, tight, back hooks I can now close myself. I put my long wig, no, my long hair now, I have started growing my real hair long, but I still use the wig braid on top to make it look thick, long till waist, I brush it, put coconut jasmine oil, make a long braid. I put a big red bindi, kajal winged, small jhumkas, my thaali chain with Lakshmi pendant that touches my chest, red glass bangles that clink when I cook, silver anklets that go chil chil when I walk fast.

Then baby. She wakes at 6, crying small. I pick her up, her milk smell on my saree, I give her warm water, then milk, then I bathe her in small tub, her fair small legs kicking, I dry her with soft towel, put baby powder that smells like her mother used to smell, and she holds my kasavu border in her small fist, like I am her amma. I am.

Then kitchen. I make puttu, kadala, dosa, kanji water for baby, pack Suresh ettan's steel dabba - rice, thoran, curd, a little pickle. He takes bath, wears clean white shirt I ironed last night while sitting on floor in saree, pallu on lap. I fix his collar, I put a little vibhuti on his forehead like wives do, and he says, "You too take care," and goes to shop on his bike. I stand at gate, in saree, long braid with gajra, bangles clinking, till his sound goes.

Whole day I am mother. I wash clothes, his shirt, my saree, baby's frocks, hanging them together on rope, his white shirt next to my pink saree, like husband-wife. I clean house, I press baby's small legs, I hum Aararo, I cook lunch, I sit on floor mat in saree, legs to one side, pallu covering, eating after baby eats, like a mother eats.

In the afternoon, when baby sleeps in cradle, house quiet, fan sound only, I went to the mirror again. I was wearing the red kasavu saree, my best one, long braid with half wilted gajra, big red bindi, jhumkas, bangles, anklets, thaali shining. I looked at myself, full, from head to foot, the way a wife looks at herself after doing all work.

And I cried.

I cried seeing myself in mirror, all struggle to get here, looking like this, being wife to someone. From being the fair boy with two sisters, who was told "you should have been sister," to being the boy who wanted to sit at a man's feet like Lakshmi, to cleaning another man's house secretly, to wearing his dead wife's saree in small room, to now standing as his wife, with his thaali, his baby sleeping behind me, his house smelling of my food, my jasmine.

My tears fell on my kasavu border. My bangles clinked when I wiped them. My anklets sounded when I sobbed and my shoulders shook, my long braid shaking.

This is what I imagined. Not just saree, but this feeling - tired, happy, needed, like a house runs because I woke early.

Evening, he came at 7. I was ready in my best saree, the pink chiffon one, fresh gajra I made in afternoon, bindi fresh, kajal fresh, anklets polished. I waited at door, pallu over head a little, like a new wife waits.

He came, smiled when he saw me, tiredness gone from his face after so many months. He took a fresh gajra from his shop cover and put it in my braid himself, his fingers touching my long hair, fixing it, smelling it.

"Baby and you look beautiful," he said.

I fed baby first, then him. I served him on floor mat, water near his feet, rice with my hands, the way my mother serves my father. He ate everything, said, "My wife's food," and that word wife made my bangles clink louder, my heart beat faster.

Then we all went to temple for blessing. Me in my best saree, long braid with double gajra now, jhumkas, bangles, anklets, thaali, baby on my hip in new frock holding my border, Suresh ettan in new mundu and shirt, holding my hand a little when we walked over temple stones so my anklets don't trip.

People in temple looked. Some knew the rumour, some didn't. But they all saw a small, fair, pretty wife, with long hair, bindi, bangles, carrying baby like own, walking with husband, head down, pallu managed, anklets going chil chil on temple floor.

I couldn't wait to show the world how good a wife I am. How good a mother I am. How much I can care, nurture, love, sacrifice.

My grandma's story was true. Lakshmi doesn't sit at Vishnu's feet because she is below. She sits there because that is where she can hear if her family needs her, where she can press tiredness away, where she can be home.

I am home.