The ceiling fan clicked steadily, stirring the humid Chennai air as Likith sat on the worn diwan by the window. It had been thirty-seven days since he last went to work—though he still checked his email every morning, hoping to see a reply from one of the companies he had applied to. There were none.
The living room, once a space of shared laughter and evening filter coffee with his wife Priya, now felt like a waiting room for something that never arrived. Outside, the sounds of neighborhood life went on uninterrupted—distant horns, a pressure cooker whistle, a vegetable vendor’s call—but inside, the house had grown quieter, heavier.
Priya’s voice cut through the stillness.
“Likith, the bucket in the bathroom is still empty. Weren’t you supposed to fill it before I got home?”
He stood abruptly, startled, and stumbled over his own slipper. “Sorry, I... I’ll do it now,” he said, his voice low.
Priya didn’t raise hers. She never had to. She simply turned and walked away, her crisp cotton saree brushing against the doorway. She had just come back from her office—her job at the bank now the sole source of income. Likith’s own dismissal had been sudden. A round of layoffs, they said. Cost-cutting.
At first, she had been sympathetic. For a week or two, she cooked for him. She even told him to take his time, not to panic. But as days passed and the phone remained silent, a shift began. Small things. She no longer brought him tea. Her words grew sharper. She stopped asking him about job applications. And slowly, she started giving instructions.
Filling water. Folding laundry. Sweeping the floor in the afternoons while she was away.
Likith, unsure of what else to do, obeyed.
That evening, after she changed and came to the kitchen, he tried to bring it up.
“Priya,” he said, hesitantly. “Some of my old T-shirts are pretty worn out... and I don’t really have good track pants anymore. I was thinking... maybe we could get a couple, just basic ones?”
She paused at the stove, turning the flame down. “You want money for clothes?”
Likith nodded, swallowing hard. “Just something comfortable to wear around the house... for chores and—”
She interrupted, her voice cool, “You don’t go out. You don’t work. Why do you need new clothes?”
He blinked. “I just thought—”
“You thought wrong.” She wiped her hands on the kitchen towel, then added, “Buying clothes for someone who doesn’t earn is wasteful. You can wear what’s already in the house.”
Later that night, she entered the bedroom holding a folded bundle of fabric.
“Here,” she said, placing it on the bed. “One of my old nighties. It’s clean. Loose enough for you to do housework comfortably.”
Likith stared at it, unsure how to respond. A pale lavender nightie with faint floral print. On top of it, a white petticoat.
“Priya, this is... I mean, it’s yours.”
“I don’t use it anymore,” she said flatly. “And it’s better than walking around shirtless in rags.”
He wanted to protest. But she had already turned the lights off.
The next morning, he stood before the mirror, staring at his reflection in the nightie. The cotton fabric felt strange against his skin, the short sleeves loose around his shoulders. He looked ridiculous. Humiliated. But he wore it.
Because it was easier than asking again.
Over the next few days, Priya barely acknowledged his clothing. She simply began referring to chores as “your work” and left notes on the refrigerator.
Dust the pooja shelf. Don’t forget the corners.
Refill all water bottles.
Iron my blouse for Thursday.
She never raised her voice. She didn’t need to.
It was on the fifth day, as he was drying dishes, that it happened. A plate—one of the good ones from their wedding set—slipped from his soapy hands and shattered on the kitchen floor.
Priya arrived within seconds. Her eyes scanned the mess.
“I see,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “It was wet and—”
“Clearly,” she interrupted, “your hands are too fast and careless.”
The next morning, she placed something on the table before leaving for work. A set of thin glass bangles. Green.
“Wear them when you do the dishes,” she said. “They’ll slow you down. Help you be more mindful.”
He looked up, stunned.
“You’re not joking?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like I am?”
And so, by afternoon, Likith was moving carefully around the sink, wrists adorned with jingling green bangles that clinked with every motion. The sound filled the quiet house. Each clink a reminder. Of the plate. Of her control. Of his failure.
That night, Priya praised his tidier work. Then, as if casually, she mentioned, “Tomorrow, I’ll bring out my old anklets. You’ve started stomping around the house like a laborer. It’s not elegant.”
Likith looked away, but said nothing.
The fan clicked on. The curtain stirred. But the silence between them was louder than anything.
Great. Here's **Chapter Two**, continuing the slow transformation of Likith and the shifting dynamic in their household. This chapter focuses on the psychological tension, the introduction of the anklets, and the subtle deepening of Priya’s control.
---
**Chapter Two: The Sound of Silver**
Morning sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting hazy patterns on the tiled floor. Likith stood barefoot in the kitchen, his nightie brushing just below his knees as he stirred sambar for lunch. The bangles on his wrists clicked quietly with each motion, their soft chime embedding itself into the rhythm of his day.
At first, he had been embarrassed even to look at them. Now, they were just… there. Like the nightie. Like the petticoat beneath it. Parts of a routine he hadn’t chosen but had stopped fighting.
He still didn’t leave the house. Not even to check the mailbox.
“Likith,” Priya called from the bedroom. “Come here.”
He wiped his hands and walked in, the bangles chiming faintly as he moved. She was seated on the edge of the bed, hair tied back, wearing her office salwar. Her expression was calm—too calm. On her lap sat a small velvet box.
“I found these in the loft. My old anklets,” she said, opening it.
They were delicate, silver, with tiny bells spaced evenly along the chain. The kind of payal worn at weddings or festivals.
“You’ll wear these from now on, around the house.”
He blinked. “Priya, please… isn’t this a bit much?”
Her voice remained level. “I don’t think so. It’ll help with your posture. You’ve been dragging your feet. This will teach you to walk with awareness—gracefully.”
“Gracefully?” he echoed, barely able to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
She nodded. “A housewife must move gently. You’re handling delicate items. I don’t want more plates broken.”
He wanted to snap. To remind her he wasn’t a housewife. That he was her husband. But the words caught in his throat. Because they no longer felt true.
“You can put them on now,” she said, standing. “I’m getting late.”
She left the room. Likith stared at the anklets in silence for a long time.
Later that afternoon, as he swept the hall, the soft jingle of the payal followed him like a mocking echo. It was impossible to walk briskly. The bells rang at every step, forcing him to adjust his pace—slower, lighter. He hated it. He hated how natural it was beginning to feel.
By evening, Priya returned and noticed immediately. “Much better,” she said approvingly, eyes scanning his feet.
That night, as they sat at the dining table, she mentioned casually, “Tomorrow, I want you to clean the godrej inside out. Remove all the clothes, wipe it down, and refold everything neatly.”
Likith nodded without thinking. It had become instinctive. The yeses came before the thoughts now.
“Also,” she added, scooping rice onto her plate, “set aside anything that looks worn out. I’ll decide what to keep.”
He chewed slowly, his appetite dulled.
The next morning, he opened the wardrobe and began the task. Halfway through, he hesitated at a faded blue shirt—one of the few he still felt like himself in. He folded it quietly and tucked it at the back of the shelf.
When Priya came home and inspected his work, she found the shirt.
“This is worn out,” she said, holding it up.
“It’s still good,” he mumbled. “I like this one.”
“I said I’d decide,” she replied. Then, without ceremony, she tossed it into the discard pile.
That night, they didn’t speak much.
But before bed, she handed him a folded bundle. “Here. Innerwear. You’ve been sweating in that nightie. You should wear a bra and panties underneath like proper house clothes.”
He looked at her, stunned.
“Priya... no. That’s too far. I’m still—”
“You’re still in this house,” she cut in. “Still not earning. Still wearing *my* clothes. And since I wash them, I don’t want sweat stains ruining them. A cotton bra will help. So will panties. It’s practical.”
She said it without cruelty, as if explaining a household rule. That made it worse.
He didn’t answer. She didn’t wait.
The next morning, he stood before the mirror again. This time, the nightie hung over the faint outline of a soft-cupped bra beneath it. The panties hugged him uncomfortably. He felt absurd. Wrong. Small.
But he still picked up the broom.
The anklets chimed with every step.
Certainly. Here is **Chapter Three**, continuing the gradual unraveling of Likith’s identity, with heightened emotional tension, deeper humiliation, and Priya taking bolder steps to reinforce her dominance.
---
**Chapter Three: The Mirror’s Reflection**
The following days passed in silence, broken only by the rustle of chores and the constant jingle of Likith’s payal. The rhythm of the house had changed completely—his hands did the cleaning, the cooking, the folding. Priya barely needed to speak now; her routines had been etched into his days like ritual.
But he still clung to small remnants of himself. His walk remained stiff, forced. He tried to lower his voice when he spoke. And above all, he kept his beard and moustache—the only outward sign left of the man he used to be.
Until Sunday.
Priya sat on the sofa in her maroon cotton saree, sipping her morning coffee, as Likith stood by the dining table, nervously folding the tablecloth. She had taken a slow sip, looked up at him, and smiled—not warmly.
“You should shave,” she said casually.
He stopped folding. “What?”
“Your beard,” she said, more firmly. “And the moustache. It doesn’t suit your current appearance. Makes you look... confused.”
He felt his throat tighten. “Priya, that’s—no. That’s mine. It’s part of me.”
“Was,” she corrected. “It was part of who you *used* to be. You’re not that man anymore, are you?”
“I’m still your husband,” he replied sharply.
She stood slowly, setting her cup down, and walked up to him. He instinctively took a step back.
“My husband provided for this house. He protected me. He didn’t cry when I asked him to clean a bathroom or iron a blouse,” she said coolly.
He looked away, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
“You wear nighties, you walk around in payal, you’ve accepted bras and panties like it’s normal. But you still hang onto that beard like a symbol of pride.” She laughed—softly, without kindness. “It looks pathetic now. Like a man in costume.”
He felt heat rise in his cheeks. “I won’t shave it,” he said, but even to his ears, the words lacked strength.
She gave him a long, still look. Then reached into the drawer and placed her pink Gillette razor on the table.
“You will. Or tomorrow, you can wash my underwear by hand in the backyard where the neighbors can watch.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
And in the morning, Likith stood in the bathroom, staring at his reflection. The floral nightie. The thin bra straps peeking from under it. The faint clinking of bangles as his hands trembled. His face was the last fragment of dignity.
Slowly, he lathered the foam and dragged the razor across his cheeks.
The hair fell away in strokes.
First his beard. Then his moustache.
When he looked up again, a stranger stared back. His chin looked smaller, his expression softer—almost meek.
He looked... girlish.
He wrapped a towel over his face and stepped out, hoping to avoid her gaze. But Priya was waiting.
“Well?” she asked, motioning him closer.
He removed the towel.
Her eyes swept over his bare face, and a slow, satisfied smile formed. “*Much* better. Now you actually look the part.”
He flushed.
“Say it,” she added.
“What?”
“Say thank you.”
His throat tightened again.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
She stepped close, tapping his now-smooth chin. “Don’t mumble. Speak like a proper housewife. Clear. Obedient.”
He lowered his eyes. “Thank you, Priya,” he said, louder.
She smiled and turned away. “Good. Now put your anklets back on. They were noisy enough to let me know you’re working.”
The rest of the day, Likith walked through the house like a ghost. Every mirror he passed made him flinch. His face, now clean and soft, looked too unfamiliar, too exposed. The bangles clinked, the anklets rang, and the bra itched against his skin—but it was his face that shamed him most.
