Maid Disguise

It was never supposed to go this far. When Rohan arrived at his aunt’s house in Coimbatore, he was just seeking refuge after a rough argument with his father. A few days to cool off, that was the plan. But his aunt, always sharp and a little dramatic, had other ideas.

“They’re asking questions about you already,” she said, peeking through the window. “The neighbors, the temple ladies—curious minds. If you’re going to stay here quietly, you need to disappear. No one will suspect if I say my new maid has arrived.”

Rohan blinked. “Maid? What do you mean?”

“I mean we dress you up. A simple name—Revathi. A quiet girl, obedient. Just for a few days, hmm?” Her smile was mischievous, but her tone had finality. “You do want to stay here, don’t you?”

Before he could protest, she brought out the outfit. A faded but neatly pressed cotton saree with a green border, a matching blouse, and a black drawstring petticoat. He stared at them, stunned. “How am I supposed to wear this?”

“You won’t,” she said with a grin. “I will.”

She had already laid out everything. A long, soft black wig—waist-length, slightly wavy, with a gentle shine. She sat him down, draped a towel over his shoulders, and began brushing it with practiced ease. As the strands brushed against his cheeks and neck, he felt a tingle he couldn’t name. She used coconut oil to tame it, slowly working her fingers through the length. The smell was strong, familiar, oddly comforting.

“We’ll go with a simple braid today,” she said, dividing the hair into three parts. He watched himself in the mirror—his features already softened by the oiled center-part and the snug blouse. As she wove the braid down his back, firm and even, the pressure against his spine made him shiver slightly. It felt real.

When she finished, she tied the end with a red ribbon and tucked a string of jasmine into the braid, its fragrance immediately filling the air. The saree came next. She wrapped the cotton fabric tightly around his waist, pleated it carefully, and pinned the pallu neatly over his shoulder.

“There,” she said, stepping back. “You’re Revathi now.”

And somehow, looking at the mirror, he believed her.

---

At first, the routine was awkward. Walking in a saree made his steps careful and deliberate. His long braid brushed the middle of his back, swaying with every move. He spent mornings sweeping the front yard, crouching to draw rangoli with chalk dust—his pallu slipping over his shoulder, braid dangling close to the ground. His aunt coached him in gestures—lowering his eyes, adjusting his pallu with feminine fingers, turning away modestly when the neighbors walked past.

The first time he met the driver, Hari, he felt his heart pound harder than it should. He had just finished washing the veranda steps, still kneeling in the warm sunlight, when Hari arrived with vegetables.

“New maid?” he asked his aunt.

She nodded. “This is Revathi.”

Hari looked at him—no, at her—and gave a small nod. “Namaste.”

Rohan lowered his eyes, whispered the greeting back. It felt strangely thrilling to be seen that way.

---

Days turned to weeks. His aunt didn’t bring up changing back. And truthfully, Rohan didn’t ask. The braid had become familiar—something he adjusted without thinking, flipping it over his shoulder while cooking, or feeling it brush his arm as he lay on the floor mat at night. She taught him to wrap his own saree, to apply a dot of kumkum on his forehead, and to twist the braid into a bun secured with metal pins for temple visits.

One afternoon, she sat him down for a hair massage. “Real maids oil their hair at least twice a week,” she said. “And Revathi must keep appearances.”

She worked the warm coconut oil into the scalp, section by section, until the wig’s roots felt like they were his own. The slow circular pressure of her fingers, the slippery smoothness of the oil sliding through the strands—Rohan closed his eyes, letting it all in. When she finished braiding, it felt heavier than usual, thick with oil and fresh flowers.

He caught Hari glancing at him the next day. Just a second too long. It made something stir in his chest.

---

Then came the day her temple group decided to visit. “They’re coming for lunch. You’ll serve, understand?” his aunt said. “Be quiet. Be graceful.”

Revathi obeyed. Hair in a tight bun decorated with orange marigold, a soft blue saree that rustled when she walked, and silver anklets that chimed as she moved between rooms carrying steel tumblers of buttermilk. The women complimented her mild nature, her modesty, her grace.

“She’s like a real daughter to you,” one of them said.

His aunt smiled knowingly. “More than you know.”

---

One evening, Hari offered to drop him at the store. “Come, Revathi. I’ll take you.”

In the auto, the wind played with the end of his braid, making it flick across his shoulder. He was too aware of his thin blouse, the snug petticoat, the soft jasmine scent in his hair. Hari glanced once, said nothing. But the silence between them was thick with something neither named.

Back home, Hari lingered. “You speak very little,” he said.

“I’m… shy,” Rohan replied, voice soft, almost trained now.

“I like quiet girls,” Hari said, and then left with a half-smile.

Rohan couldn’t sleep that night. He kept undoing and redoing his braid, feeling every tug and pull, every brush of hair across his back.

The braid had become familiar—something she adjusted without thinking, flipping it over her shoulder while cooking, or feeling it brush her arm as she lay on the floor mat at night. But just when things seemed to settle, a new twist came into her slow transformation.

One day, her aunt returned from the bazaar with a small box. “Open it,” she said with a grin. Inside was a full set of hot rollers and a curling iron. “I told the parlor lady I had a niece who doesn’t know how to style her hair.”

“But it’s a wig…” Revathi hesitated.

“And you still have to take care of it like it’s real. Sit.”

She reluctantly obeyed. Her aunt began sectioning the long strands, clipping them into hot rollers that bounced slightly as she moved. “This is how you’ll prepare for pujas or important guests. You’ll wear it loose, but with soft curls. Proper ladies don't keep their hair dead straight all the time.”

As the rollers set, her aunt painted her toenails with deep maroon polish. “Little things, dear. You never know who might be watching.”

When the curls were released, her hair was transformed—bouncy and thick, cascading around her shoulders. Revathi caught her own reflection and blushed. The way the ends curled around her neck, brushing her cheeks, made her feel delicate. Beautiful. Exposed.

Later that week, her aunt brought her to the local women’s tailoring shop. “She needs a few blouses stitched,” she told the tailor, a young woman named Nimmi. “Tighter fit. Higher neck. Sleeves to the elbow.”

Nimmi winked at Revathi. “You’ll look very graceful. Are you new to the area?”

Revathi nodded nervously. “Yes. Just helping my aunt.”

But Nimmi’s knowing glance lingered. “We’ll give you the soft cotton first. Then silk. You’ll be ready for pongal season in style.”

Back home, her aunt handed her a packet of new false hair extensions. “You’ve done well blending in. But soon the temple ladies will expect you to wear a proper thick braid with extra volume.”

Revathi gulped. The extensions were almost a meter long, glossy black, tied with golden ribbon. Her aunt clipped them in seamlessly and then helped her oil the full length, which now reached past her hips. “This,” she said, “is how tradition feels.”

Walking with such a long braid was different. It slapped gently against her hips when she turned, got caught under her arm when she reached forward, and took time to pin up into a bun. But she found herself loving the routine—detangling, oiling, braiding, adding flowers. It was no longer an act. It became her rhythm.

Then came the surprise visit. One of her aunt’s close friends came by with her niece—an outspoken, bubbly girl named Keerthi who was instantly curious about Revathi.

“She’s lovely,” Keerthi whispered to her aunt. “So quiet.”

Later, when Revathi was alone in the kitchen, Keerthi entered, sat on the counter, and stared. “You know… I can braid hair very well.”

Revathi tried to smile. “Mine’s already done.”

Keerthi stood, walked over, and gently undid the braid. “Let me try something different.” Her fingers were warm and fast. “You’ll look stunning in a fishtail braid. Ever tried one?”

As the strands shifted and weaved tighter, brushing softly against Revathi’s neck and back, she felt nervous—but strangely safe.

“You’re very pretty,” Keerthi said softly. “I hope you know that.”

Before she could answer, her aunt called. Keerthi gave her braid a final pat and whispered, “Don’t hide it so much.”

That night, Revathi undid the braid slowly, finger by finger, then brushed the soft curls out until her hair spread like a black curtain over her shoulders. She slept with it open for the first time—just to feel it around her on the pillow.

The next week, she visited the temple with her aunt, and one of the elder women approached. “Revathi, right?” she said kindly. “Would you mind helping us decorate for Navratri? We need someone to do the rangoli and manage the diya trays.”

Revathi nodded. She was used to saying yes now.

The preparations were intense. Her hair was tied in a low bun decorated with orange and white flowers, her saree tightly pleated, blouse snug. She knelt by the temple steps, drawing intricate designs with colored powder. Her braid—when let loose for a ceremony—brushed the floor, and other women complimented her discipline.

“You remind me of my daughter when she was newly married,” one said.

Revathi smiled quietly. And inside, something stirred.

The next day, she returned to find Hari waiting at the gate.

“You were helping at the temple?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He nodded, then looked down. “There’s a mela this weekend. If you’d like… I could take you.”

She hesitated.

“I’ll get a helmet for you,” he added quickly. “So your hair doesn’t get messy.”

That made her smile.

They went on Sunday. Revathi wore a maroon cotton saree, her braid thick with fresh jasmine. They wandered the stalls, sipping sugarcane juice, her braid swinging behind her with each step. Hari bought her a silver anklet.

“For luck,” he said simply.

When they got home, her aunt raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Revathi, back in her room, took off the anklet, kissed it lightly, and placed it in her saree drawer. Right next to her new hair comb, the red ribbon, and the little perfume bottle Keerthi had gifted her.

She wasn’t just pretending anymore. She was collecting memories.

---

One morning, after weeks of silence, his aunt said, “It’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“To let your parents meet their daughter.”

His heart stopped. “Auntie…”

“You’re ready. More than ready. And they need to see who you’ve become.”

He said nothing. Just touched the edge of his pallu and nodded.

The next day, she called them for lunch. She dressed him carefully—deep red saree with golden border, long braid decorated with jasmine and gold clips, a bindi in the middle of his forehead. She added glass bangles, soft lipstick, and lined his eyes just slightly.

When his parents arrived, he stood quietly by the door, tray in hand.

They didn’t recognize him. Not at first.

Then his mother gasped. His father stared.

“This is…?”

His aunt nodded. “This is Revathi.”

There was silence. Then tears. His mother reached out, touched his braid gently, held his hand.

“If this is who you are,” she whispered, “then I want to know you again.”

---

Months later, a quiet engagement was arranged. His parents hesitated, but trusted his aunt’s judgment. Hari stepped forward. The same man who had seen Revathi from the beginning. Who never asked questions, only offered steady presence.

The marriage was small. A function in the courtyard. Revathi wore orange silk, her now-permanent braid oiled and adorned with gold and jasmine. She blushed under the veil, sat shyly beside Hari as the guests blessed them.

The first night was silent at first. The room smelled of sandalwood and rose petals, the soft hum of the ceiling fan above. Revathi sat on the edge of the bed, her thick braid laid gently over her shoulder. She had taken off her jewellery, the bangles, the earrings, even the nose pin, but the mangalsutra rested on her chest, and the red stain of sindoor at her hairline made her reflection in the mirror feel more real than ever before.

Hari entered the room slowly, closing the door behind him. He didn’t say much at first, just walked over and sat beside her, the mattress dipping slightly with his weight. He looked at her for a long moment, his fingers tracing the edge of her braid where the jasmine flowers had started to wilt.

"You look tired," he said softly.

Revathi nodded. "It’s been a long day."

He reached out, fingers brushing the side of her cheek, then gently untied the thread at the end of her braid. “Can I help?”

She blinked. “Help with what?”

"Unbraiding it. You must be sore."

She gave him a shy nod. He moved behind her, slowly unweaving the thick strands, his fingers warm and careful. As the braid opened, her hair spilled over her back like silk, heavy and fragrant.

“You have beautiful hair,” he whispered, letting his fingers trail through the loosened waves.

“I take care of it,” she said quietly, smiling.

“I can tell.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. Her skin tingled. She closed her eyes as his arms circled around her waist from behind, pulling her back against his chest. The warmth of his body, the gentle tug of her hair as it shifted between them—it was all so new, so intimate, and yet it felt right.

He turned her gently to face him. Her long hair framed her face, some strands caught against her lips. He tucked them behind her ear. She looked up into his eyes, nervous, but not afraid.

“I’ve never…” she started to say.

“I know,” he whispered. “We’ll go slow.”

He leaned in and kissed her—not urgently, not demanding—but with a tenderness that made her heart ache. She let herself melt into it, her fingers resting lightly on his chest, then sliding around his neck. He lifted her gently onto his lap, her saree rustling, her hair falling over both of them like a curtain.

By the time dawn painted the sky in orange and pink, she was resting against him, her cheek on his chest, her long hair tangled over both of them like a blanket. His hand played gently with her strands, winding them between his fingers.

"You’re mine now," he whispered.

She smiled, her eyes still closed. "I’ve always been."