Rajesh was 18 when everything changed.
He had just finished his board exams and was dreaming of joining an engineering college in Coimbatore. A quiet boy with an interest in sketching and books, Rajesh had always been obedient, respectful, and withdrawn—something his mother, Janaki, often blamed on the absence of a father figure.
They lived in Madurai, in an ancestral house filled with the smell of camphor and rosewater, where photos of long-gone ancestors hung on walls, watching like silent judges. Janaki, widowed early, had raised Rajesh with strict discipline and deep-rooted beliefs.
One morning, she summoned him to the prayer room. There, amidst flickering oil lamps and the scent of agarbatti, she laid out a bright red Kanchipuram saree, a matching blouse, and jewelry that once belonged to her grandmother.
“You must wear this,” she said without emotion.
Rajesh blinked. “What?”
“The astrologer says the curse on our family can be lifted only when the girl child returns to this house,” she said, her voice strangely serene. “I lost my baby girl before you were born. Now you will take her place.”
He thought she had lost her mind. “Amma, I’m your son.”
“Not anymore,” she said, and left the room.
That evening, his jeans and shirts were gone. Only silk sarees, petticoats, and blouses remained in the wardrobe. Janaki took his phone, disconnected the Wi-Fi, and refused to let him leave the house. The next day, she locked the door and came in with makeup, bangles, and the same red saree.
“I won’t do it,” Rajesh shouted, backing away.
She grabbed his arm and slapped him. “You will. You’ll be Rajalakshmi now.”
Trembling, Rajesh changed—under her gaze. The saree felt alien on his skin. The petticoat was tight around his waist. Janaki adjusted the pleats with precision, pulling the pallu across his chest. She pinned it neatly and stood back.
Then came the transformation.
She tied jasmine flowers into a black wig and pinned it to his head. She dabbed kajal around his eyes, brushed powder across his cheeks, and stuck a red bindi on his forehead. She placed gold bangles on his wrists and gave him her own gold jhumkas (earrings) to wear. When he flinched as the clips bit into his earlobes, she held his face gently.
“You look beautiful,” she said, her voice softening.
Rajesh stood before the mirror. His broad shoulders looked out of place under the saree. His eyes were rimmed with tears. The person in the mirror looked like a girl—yes—but not one he recognized.
The days that followed were strict and strange. Janaki gave him hormone-laced herbal mixtures, claiming it would soften his skin and reduce body hair. She made him walk around the courtyard balancing books on his head to improve posture. At night, she tied a silk cloth around his hips to “shape his figure.”
He was forbidden from using his old name. “Say it,” she demanded one morning, pointing to his reflection.
“…Rajalakshmi,” he whispered.
“Louder.”
“Rajalakshmi,” he said again, voice breaking.
Each day, he wore a new saree—some cotton, some silk. He learned to tie the pleats, fold the pallu, and match jewelry. Janaki made him sit with the women of the neighborhood during Navaratri, where they praised her “daughter’s modesty and beauty.” Rajesh wanted to scream.
He began to walk differently—carefully, avoiding loud steps. His voice changed too, lowered and polite. His nails grew out. His mother even pierced his ears properly one evening with a heated needle and a prayer on her lips.
He wasn’t allowed to cry. “You are a girl now,” she said. “Strong, graceful, silent.”
But deep inside, Rajesh still existed—buried under silk and bindi and bangles.
One night, he looked in the mirror in a mustard-yellow saree, his waist cinched by a golden belt, his face decorated for a temple event. He touched the mirror, staring at his reflection, and whispered, “I don’t even know who I am anymore "