The Temple Festival Swap

I still remember that temple festival like it happened yesterday. The whole place was packed. People were eating, talking, laughing. The girls from my cousin’s dance group were getting ready near the stage. They had their dupattas pinned, bangles on, and were practicing steps again and again.

I was standing at the edge, not interested in any of it. My cousin Simran was part of the dance group. She always found some way to drag me into her drama.

That’s when one of the girls started coughing badly. She looked sick and couldn’t even stand straight. The teacher in charge panicked. “We need eight dancers, not seven. The formation will break!” she said.

Before I could slip away, Simran pointed straight at me. “He can do it. Look at his hair. It’s long enough already. Just braid it and put him in costume.”

I froze. “No way. I’m not doing that.”

But the teacher looked at me carefully and then nodded. “Yes. He’s slim, fair, and about the same height. We’ll put him in a lehenga. It will work.”

My heart started racing. “No! I’m not a girl. Don’t even think about it.”

It didn’t matter. Within seconds, two aunties grabbed my arms. Simran was laughing so much she could barely talk. “Come on, Arjun! Don’t act shy.”

They dragged me across the courtyard toward a small tent behind the temple. I tried to pull back, but everyone was watching, and I knew if I shouted too much, I’d just embarrass myself even more.

The tent was full of costumes and boxes of jewelry and makeup. The smell of jasmine and powder hit me as soon as I entered. Before I could run, they pushed me down on a low stool.

“I’m not doing this,” I said firmly. My face was burning.

One of the aunties laughed and patted my cheek. “Oh, you’ll look prettier than half the girls once we’re done.”

I shook my head. “No. Please, no.”

Nobody listened. Someone untied my patka, and in one motion, my hair fell out across my shoulders. Gasps went around the tent. They all touched it, ran their fingers through it, admiring it like it was some treasure.

“Waah! Look at this hair,” one auntie said. “Even the girls don’t have hair this thick and long.”

I wanted the ground to swallow me. I knew then there was no way out. They had already decided.

The moment they saw my hair open, I knew I was finished. I tried standing up, but two of the older women pressed down on my shoulders.

“Sit straight, beta,” one of them said, like I was some doll.

I said, “I can’t do this, people will laugh at me.”

Simran giggled, “That’s the point. You’ll look so cute. Don’t worry, nobody will even know you’re a boy once they dress you.”

I glared at her, but it didn’t matter. One of the aunties brought out a comb and started running it through my hair. I hate to admit it, but my hair was thick and heavy. I kept it tied in a patka like every Sikh boy, but once it was out, it reached nearly my waist.

They kept saying things like, “It’s smoother than ours,” and “What a waste on a boy.”

I sat there clenching my fists, feeling every tug as they pulled the comb through. Then someone brought a bowl of oil and rubbed it into my scalp, massaging it like they were preparing me for a beauty parlor. I wanted to sink into the floor.

Next, they parted my hair neatly and started braiding it. I felt their fingers moving fast, tugging sections tight. The braid grew longer and heavier as it hung down my back. One of them tied the end with a ribbon. Then they started fixing jasmine flowers along the braid. The smell hit me immediately—sweet and strong.

When they turned me to face the mirror propped against the tent wall, I almost didn’t recognize myself. Just the braid alone made me look strange. Girly. I hated it, but at the same time, it was impossible to ignore how much it changed me.

“That’s better,” one woman said. “Now he looks like a proper dancer.”

I said through my teeth, “I’m not a dancer, and I’m not a girl.”

They ignored me again. Another one brought out a box with makeup inside. She picked up kajal and held my chin.

“Keep your eyes open,” she ordered.

I jerked my head back. “No way!”

Slap. A light one on my cheek. “Stop behaving like a stubborn child. You want to shame your family?”

That shut me up. My cheeks burned as she pulled my eyelids down and ran the kajal stick across. My eyes started watering immediately.

Then came powder on my face, making my skin lighter. Blush on my cheeks. Lipstick—bright red. I tried not to taste it, but the waxy, flowery taste was impossible to ignore.

Simran clapped her hands. “Arjun, you look gorgeous!”

I wanted to shout at her, but the bangles were already being slipped onto my wrists, clinking with every move.

Then someone tied heavy anklets around my legs. The bells jingled as I shifted my feet, and everyone in the tent laughed. “He walks like a shy girl already!”

I pressed my lips together. My head felt heavy from the braid and flowers, my wrists trapped in bangles, my eyes stinging from kajal.

And I hadn’t even been dressed yet.

I thought the makeup and braid were already too much, but I was wrong. That was just the beginning.

One of the aunties held up a blouse—bright red, shiny fabric with gold borders. It was tiny compared to my shirt. “Take his kurta off,” she said casually, like I wasn’t even there.

I crossed my arms. “No. I’m not wearing that.”

Two of them pulled at my sleeves anyway. Before I knew it, my kurta was yanked over my head, and I was left in my undershirt. I felt exposed, sitting there with all of them watching.

“Don’t act so shy,” Simran teased. “You’ll look nice, Arjun. Just wear it.”

They shoved the blouse into my arms and forced it over my head. It was tight, hugging my chest and shoulders in a way I wasn’t used to. I tugged at the sleeves, but they just laughed. “Fits him perfectly.”

Then came the petticoat, a plain skirt that tied at the waist. They pulled it around me and knotted it so tight I could barely breathe.

Finally, the main piece—the lehenga. Heavy, red, with glittering embroidery. Two of them lifted it up and slipped it over the petticoat. It slid down to my ankles, the weight dragging against my legs. I stood up, and the whole skirt swished around me. The sound of the fabric brushing together made me feel even more like I was trapped.

“Hold still,” one woman said as she adjusted the waistline, smoothing it with her hands. Another fixed the blouse so it sat properly. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror again. The braid, the flowers, the blouse, the skirt—it was already hard to see the boy I was a few minutes ago.

But they weren’t finished.

Jewelry came next. Heavy gold earrings were clipped onto my ears, pulling them down painfully. A necklace was clasped tight around my neck, almost choking me. Bangles stacked higher on my wrists, clinking with every tiny move.

They tied a waistband with dangling chains around my stomach, and then someone brought out a dupatta. It was sheer, red with gold trim. They pinned it over my shoulder, then pulled it across my chest and finally over my head like a veil.

“There,” one auntie said proudly. “Now he looks like a proper girl.”

I looked in the mirror again. For a moment, even I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The braid hung down with jasmine woven through it. The makeup made my face softer. The blouse and lehenga clung to me. And the dupatta over my head completed the picture.

I whispered, “This isn’t me.”

But Simran just smirked. “It is now. And you’re about to dance in front of everyone.”

My stomach dropped. I could already hear the drums outside, the crowd clapping, the announcer calling the dancers to the stage.

The jingling of my anklets reminded me that I wasn’t getting out of this.

When they pulled me outside, I tried to drag my feet, but the lehenga was too heavy, and the bangles kept clinking with every little move. My braid tugged at my scalp as the jasmine bounced against my back. I felt like I was being paraded, not walked.

The drums were louder now, mixed with the sound of the crowd. Everyone had gathered in front of the stage at the temple courtyard. Kids ran around laughing, old men sat on benches, and the women clapped along to the music.

And then I heard it—my name. “Next performance, we have… Arjun.”

My whole body froze. “No! Not me!” I whispered, turning to Simran.

She pushed me forward. “Yes, you. Go on. Show them how pretty you look.”

Before I could fight back, two aunties took my arms and guided me onto the stage. The wooden boards under my feet creaked, and the bright lights hit me. Everyone’s eyes were suddenly on me.

I wanted the ground to open and swallow me. The dupatta slipped down my shoulder a little, showing the blouse, and the crowd chuckled. Some kids giggled, pointing at me.

The dhol started up again, loud and sharp. Simran clapped from the side. “Dance, Arjun!”

“I don’t know how!” I hissed.

But they didn’t care. One of the aunties started clapping the beat, and without thinking, my feet began moving. The lehenga swished with each step, the anklets jingled, and the bangles rattled. I tried to just move a little, but the skirt forced me to sway my hips more than I wanted to. The crowd clapped louder, encouraging me.

“Shabash! She dances well!” someone shouted.

I burned inside. She? Why were they all calling me that?

The music picked up, and the aunties shouted for me to twirl. They raised their hands in the air, signaling me to spin. I hesitated, but the dhol beat pushed me, and I spun once. The skirt flared out around me, heavy and glittering under the temple lights. The crowd cheered.

My braid whipped across my back, the jasmine scent filling the air. The dupatta slid forward, almost covering my face. I could barely see, but I kept moving because stopping wasn’t an option.

My chest rose and fell under the blouse, the necklace bouncing against my skin. I hated how natural it all felt, like my body had given in to the rhythm. I could feel the skirt brushing my legs, the earrings pulling on my ears, the tikka on my forehead shaking with every step.

The crowd was louder now, clapping and cheering. “Wah! Beautiful dancer!”

I wanted to shout, I’m not a dancer! I’m not a girl! But all that came out was heavy breathing as I twirled again, the skirt flying around me.

When the music finally stopped, I stood there, panting, the dupatta half-falling off my head. The applause echoed in my ears. My face burned hotter than the temple lamps.

Simran jumped onto the stage, grabbed my hand, and raised it like I had won a prize. “Didn’t I tell you? He’s perfect!” she announced proudly.

Everyone laughed and clapped again.

I looked down at the floor, wishing I could disappear. But inside, I couldn’t ignore the strange mix of feelings—humiliation, yes, but also this heavy, suffocating sense that they had really turned me into something else.

Not Arjun the boy.But Arjun the girl.

And the night wasn’t even over.

After the dance, I thought they would let me change back into my kurta. But no. Simran held my hand tight as we walked through the temple crowd. People kept stopping us.

“Aunty, your daughter dances so well!” one old man said.“She’s not my daughter,” Auntie replied with a laugh. “She’s my niece.”

I froze. She? They were actually introducing me as a girl now.

Some ladies came close, touching the fabric of my lehenga. “So beautiful. Looks like a bride.” They adjusted my dupatta like it belonged on me. I didn’t even fight it anymore; I just stood there, face burning.

When we finally got home, I tried to run upstairs, but Auntie stopped me. “No changing yet. Everyone needs to see you.”

I groaned. “Please. I just want to take this off.”

But Simran blocked my way. “You’ll keep it on. At least until morning.”

I ended up in the living room, still in full dress—braid, jasmine, blouse, lehenga, bangles, everything. I slumped on the couch, but even that wasn’t normal anymore. The skirt puffed up around me, the dupatta kept sliding, and the jewelry dug into my skin.

Simran grinned, sitting across from me. “How does it feel?”

“Horrible,” I muttered. “Like I can’t breathe.”

She tilted her head. “Funny, because you looked like you belonged on that stage.”

I shook my head. “Stop saying that.”

But she wouldn’t stop. She kept teasing me, making me walk back and forth in the hallway, telling me to sway my hips more because “that’s how girls walk.” Every step made the anklets jingle. The sound haunted me.

Later, Auntie brought a tray of food. “Eat carefully,” she warned. “Don’t drop curry on the lehenga.” She even tucked my dupatta over my shoulder properly before handing me a plate. I felt like a doll being fussed over.

When it was bedtime, I thought they’d let me out of it. But no. “Sleep in it,” Simran said. “Real girls sleep in heavy clothes sometimes.”

I groaned, but there was no choice. Lying on the bed with the braid digging into my back, the bangles stuck against my skin, and the skirt heavy on my legs—I barely slept at all.

The next morning, I shuffled into the kitchen, eyes half-shut, the jasmine flowers wilted in my braid. Auntie smiled. “Good morning, beti.”

Beti. Daughter. Not nephew, not Arjun the boy.

Simran clapped her hands. “See? He’s used to it now.”

I wanted to scream at them, to tear everything off and run. But when I caught sight of myself in the mirror again, standing there in the red lehenga with messy braid and tired eyes, I didn’t even recognize myself anymore.

The truth hit me hard: they weren’t going to forget this. I wasn’t going to be just Arjun again. From now on, in their eyes, I was something else.

And deep down, that scared me more than anything.