Prashanth stared at his reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing himself. The transformation was seamless, almost magical, yet his heartbeat pounded in his chest. Standing before him was not Prashanth, a young man of thirty, but Shanthi—a poised, graceful, and quietly confident married woman in her late 20s.
The soft rustle of the silk saree reminded him that he was dressed differently tonight—not just outwardly, but inwardly too. The saree, a pale lavender with silver borders, clung to his padded curves in a way that was both modest and alluring. The fabric’s gentle touch against his skin made him acutely aware of every movement. His blouse—tight, low-cut, and revealing just a hint of midriff and cleavage—accentuated his feminine silhouette. The low-back design exposed his skin to the evening air, a small thrill of vulnerability coursing through him.
His hair, long and thick, was woven meticulously into a single braid adorned with fresh jasmine flowers. Their sweet scent surrounded him, bringing forth memories of South Indian weddings and celebrations. A simple bindi adorned his forehead, its color matching the kumkum he had carefully placed, each step of the process making him feel one step closer to his true self. The mangalsutra hung around his neck—a symbolic chain that conveyed his chosen identity as a married woman.
His makeup was understated, but it brought his features to life. Grey contact lenses softened the intensity of his gaze, lending it a warmth that felt both familiar and strange. A touch of glossy lipstick enhanced his full lips. Everything was perfect. Too perfect. He reached for his glass of water, but his hands were trembling. He set it down with a soft clink and looked back at Shanthi, hoping to find reassurance.
“Do I look… real?” Prashanth whispered, voice cracking with doubt. Silence answered him.
His stomach twisted with fear. Did the mangalsutra convince anyone? Would the world see Shanthi and not Prashanth trying desperately to be Shanthi? He had rehearsed every aspect of this moment for months—the way Shanthi would move, how she would walk with measured grace, how she would smile politely but keep her head slightly bowed to avoid direct eye contact. He even practiced her gentle, melodic laugh. But no amount of practice prepared him for the icy wave of fear that washed over him now.
Prashanth swallowed hard. What if people stared? What if someone noticed something amiss? What if they confronted him? The thought of being exposed and humiliated made his hands clammy. Anxiety wrapped itself around his chest, squeezing until he could barely breathe. He closed his eyes and tried to steady himself.
“Breathe, Prashanth… no, Shanthi,” he corrected himself. “You’ve come this far.”
He forced himself to recall the nights spent preparing in secret. The tears of frustration when something felt off. The moments of doubt when he almost gave up. And then, the overwhelming rush of euphoria when Shanthi emerged—real, undeniable, and finally free. This was who he was meant to be, at least for this moment. This was the identity he longed to embrace, if only he could break through the wall of fear that held him prisoner.
His pulse quickened as he reached for the door handle. A thousand possibilities raced through his mind—most of them bad. But beneath the fear, beneath the crushing anxiety, a small voice whispered that this was his moment. His chance to live, if only for a short while, as the person he truly was. Prashanth closed his eyes and listened to that voice. He let it fill him with hope.
He took a deep breath, feeling the jasmine flowers in his hair shift with the movement. The weight of the mangalsutra grounded him. “I am Shanthi,” he whispered to his reflection. “I am ready.”
Summoning every ounce of courage, he stepped out the door. The first breath of cool evening air kissed his skin. Prashanth—no, Shanthi—straightened her shoulders. She took one step, then another, and before she knew it, she was walking down the dimly lit street, head held high, every movement radiating poise and femininity. Her heart raced, but for the first time, it wasn’t entirely out of fear—it was exhilaration.
This was her first outing. The world watched, unaware of the journey she had undertaken to stand here. Every smile, every step, every flutter of her saree spoke of courage. Shanthi was ready to embrace herself, regardless of who noticed or whispered. In that moment, she was real, and she was free.
As she moved forward, a breeze caught her braid, carrying the scent of jasmine into the night. And with it, Shanthi breathed deeply, leaving Prashanth’s fears behind.
To be continued. ..
In the Mirror, A Woman: The Next step..
The cool evening breeze caressed Shanthi’s skin, a mixture of comfort and challenge whispering through the bustling city streets. Wrapped in a crimson saree with intricate gold borders, she walked with grace, her steps filled with determination. The saree hugged her form, a blend of femininity and boldness. Her waist-length braid, adorned with fresh jasmine flowers, swayed gently, releasing a sweet, nostalgic aroma into the evening air. Bangles clinked softly on her wrists, each jingle a declaration of her feminine identity. She could feel the weight of the mangalsutra around her neck—a reminder of who she had chosen to be in this moment: a married South Indian woman, proud and poised.
Every step down the dimly lit street was deliberate, a mix of confidence and underlying hesitation. Shanthi’s hips swayed naturally, echoing the feminine grace she had spent countless hours perfecting. The soft curve of her lips hinted at a smile, masking the inner storm brewing beneath her calm exterior. Her eyes, lined delicately with kohl, shimmered with a mix of hope and trepidation as she took in her surroundings. This was her first outing as Shanthi. This was the moment she had dreamed of, feared, and fought for.
As she turned a corner, the street opened into a more crowded market area. The sights, sounds, and smells of the evening bazaar hit her senses all at once. Vendors called out their wares—fresh fruits, steaming snacks, and shimmering fabrics—all competing for attention. Shanthi paused for a moment, taking it all in. She felt alive, her senses heightened. The jasmine flowers in her hair mingled with the scent of roasting peanuts, a reminder of simpler times when Prashanth would roam these streets. But now, she was Shanthi. She was stepping into the same world but seeing it through different eyes.
She walked forward, head held high, but her pulse quickened when she saw a group of men gathered near a tea stall. Her heart sank as recognition dawned—these were Prashanth’s old friends. Instinct told her to turn away, to avoid their gaze, but something stronger compelled her to keep moving. Her steps became smaller, more hesitant. As she approached, she hoped they wouldn’t notice her, that they would continue laughing and talking, unaware of her presence.
But fate had other plans. One of them glanced her way, his eyes lingering. Shanthi felt her breath catch. She forced herself to remain calm, adjusting the pallu draped across her shoulder. The man tilted his head slightly, as if trying to place her, then smiled politely and looked away. Relief flooded her veins. To him, she was just another passerby—a woman adorned in a saree, blending into the vibrant crowd. For a moment, she allowed herself to believe it was true.
But as she moved past them, another man—taller, with a mischievous glint in his eyes—called out, “Madam, would you like some tea?” His tone was light, teasing, but it sent a chill down her spine. Was it innocent curiosity? Or had he seen through her carefully crafted disguise? Shanthi turned to face him, her expression carefully neutral. She shook her head with a polite smile, her heart pounding in her chest.
“Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging and returning to his friends. They resumed their laughter, their attention no longer on her. Shanthi exhaled slowly, the tightness in her chest easing. She had passed. She had been seen as Shanthi—a woman—not Prashanth, and that realization sent a surge of both relief and exhilaration through her.
The market stretched on, and as she continued walking, she became acutely aware of every glance directed her way. Some were curious, others indifferent, but each one made her hyper-conscious of her identity. She adjusted her saree, fingers brushing against the mangalsutra around her neck. The weight of it grounded her, reminded her why she was doing this. To live as her true self, even if just for one evening.
She stopped at a small jewelry stall, captivated by a pair of delicate gold earrings. The vendor, an elderly woman with kind eyes, smiled warmly. “They would look beautiful on you,” she said, her voice gentle. Shanthi nodded, barely trusting herself to speak. She lifted one earring, admiring its intricate design. It wasn’t about the jewelry; it was about being treated as who she was—a woman, with all the complexities and dreams that came with it.
The night stretched on, and as the city’s lights began to flicker to life, Shanthi’s confidence grew. She walked with more ease, her steps lighter. She even bought a small bag of roasted peanuts, savoring the simple joy of eating them while walking through the market. For a few moments, she forgot about fear, about the world that might judge her. She was simply Shanthi—a woman living her truth.
As the evening wore on, she knew it was time to head home. The journey back was quieter, the streets less crowded. The adrenaline that had fueled her began to fade, leaving behind a mixture of exhaustion and quiet satisfaction. She had done it. She had faced her fears, walked the streets as Shanthi, and survived. More than that—she had lived.
At the door of her home, Shanthi paused. She glanced at her reflection in a nearby window. In the dim light, she saw not Prashanth, but a woman with kohl-lined eyes, a crimson saree, and a determined gaze. She saw strength, vulnerability, and courage. She saw Shanthi.
The End..
