Campus secrets

When Vinay stepped into the gates of St. Lakshmi’s College in Kochi, he had only one goal—study computer science, stay out of trouble, and graduate quietly. He was a shy boy, thin and soft-spoken, often mistaken for a girl from behind because of his delicate features and long lashes.

He didn't mind. He liked being invisible.

That changed in his second semester.

It began when Vinay’s roommate, Arvind, stumbled upon an old photo hidden in his notebook—a photo of Vinay dressed in a lehenga for a childhood fancy dress competition.

“You looked too real!” Arvind laughed. “Like a real girl.”

Vinay flushed red. “It was just a school thing.”

But the teasing didn’t stop. Arvind told others. Soon, Vinay became the joke of the hostel.

One evening, a group of senior students cornered him in his room. “We have a challenge for you,” one said with a grin. “For this week’s college fest, you’re going to perform—as a girl.”

Vinay protested, but they had already arranged everything: costume, makeup, and threats. If he refused, they would leak fake photos and harass him further.

Out of fear, he agreed.

What was meant to be a one-time humiliation turned into something deeper.

The day of the fest arrived. They brought him to the green room and handed him a churidar, a wig, and a box of makeup. A senior girl was assigned to help him dress.

“You’ll need padding,” she said casually, stuffing cloth under the bra. She lined his eyes with kajal, dabbed lipstick onto his trembling lips, and added a bindi.

As he looked at himself in the mirror, he gasped. He looked…convincing.

They made him walk in front of the college crowd in full attire. The audience went silent for a moment, then clapped. Most didn’t even recognize him.

After the show, the seniors whispered, “We should keep her.”

From that day, they began calling him Vinaya.

What started as a dare became routine. Every evening, he was forced to return to the room, change into salwars and sarees, and speak softly. They trained him—how to sit, how to walk, how to smile. They threatened to expose him if he disobeyed.

Vinay began skipping classes to avoid questions. The seniors controlled his wardrobe, makeup, and even his behavior. One even forged documents, enrolling him as Ms. Vinaya R. in a women’s development workshop—just to humiliate him further.

And strangely, no one stopped it.

The college was large. Rumors stayed hidden. Most assumed Vinaya was a shy girl from another department. The seniors guarded their secret well.

Vinay lost track of how long it had been since he’d worn pants. His body language changed. He began walking slower, shoulders inward. He hated it—yet something in him stayed silent.

One day, looking in the mirror of the hostel bathroom, wearing a lavender saree and gold jhumkas, he whispered, “This isn’t me…”

But the voice that came back sounded uncertain.

Weeks turned into months.

Vinay's life had split into two. During the day, he attended classes as Vinay—quiet, jeans-wearing, unnoticed. But after 5 PM, in the shadows of Hostel Block C, he was Vinaya—dressed in sarees, made up like a girl, serving tea to the seniors, learning how to thread his eyebrows, how to sit with his knees together, how to answer with a soft “aama, anna.”

At first, he hated every moment.

The makeup felt like a mask. The petticoat itched. The long hair from the wig made him sweat. But the fear of being outed kept him obedient. The seniors said they had photos and videos—him in bangles, him adjusting his saree, him blushing as they applied lipstick.

“You don’t want your classmates to see this, right?” they grinned.

So he played the part.

But something strange began to happen.

Over time, Vinay began walking into the role more naturally. One day, a senior handed him a blue half-saree, one worn by first-year girls during Onam. As he slipped into the flowing skirt, tied the dupatta over his shoulder, and caught his reflection, he paused.

He didn’t look like a boy pretending anymore.

He looked… calm. Maybe even beautiful.

And that scared him more than anything.

He’d stare at himself in the mirror late at night, unsure whether what he felt was shame or relief. For so long, he had tried to disappear. But as Vinaya, he was seen—noticed, admired, even complimented.

During one college event, he was made to pose for a photo with a group of girls. No one realized he wasn’t one of them. That night, when he saw the group photo on Instagram tagged as “Gorgeous ladies of CS!”, his heart raced.

Was he starting to like it?

Things escalated.

The seniors forced him to use female pronouns in private. Then they made him wear an anarkali suit to the temple, pretending to be Arvind’s “cousin sister” visiting from Tirunelveli. He walked through the streets with a veil over his head, bangles tinkling, strangers smiling.

He should’ve hated it.

But instead… he felt free. No one judged him. No one mocked his softness. No one questioned his voice or posture.

For the first time, he felt safe—ironically, in a lie.

Back in the hostel, Vinay sat on his bed, saree neatly folded beside him, face bare, but heart overwhelmed.

“Who am I now?” he whispered into the dark.

Was he still the boy who came to college for a degree?

Or was he becoming the girl they forced him to be?

His fingers slowly reached for the pair of jhumkas on the table.

It was during the college’s cultural week that the illusion began to crack.

Vinaya had been dressed for the final night of events—a saree performance with traditional Kerala music. The seniors had been prepping him for weeks, pushing him harder each day: walking lessons, posture drills, even practicing a feminine giggle.

That evening, they handed him a cream-colored kasavu saree with a golden border, and a gold-plated waist chain that jingled when he moved. His makeup was perfect. Kajal thick, lashes curled, lips coated in rose pink. A red bindi centered his forehead. He looked radiant—and terrifyingly convincing.

But something happened on stage.

As he swayed to the beat, eyes closed, the crowd clapped—not out of mockery, but in awe. Phones came out. Photos. Videos. Screams of “Beautiful!” and “She’s so graceful!”

Vinay froze.

For a second, Vinaya felt real.

Too real.

Backstage, as he ripped off the bangles and tried to catch his breath, a classmate entered—Meera, one of the only girls who had ever spoken kindly to him.

“Hey… wait.” She looked closely. “Vinay?”

He stood still, half in costume, half in panic.

Her eyes widened, but she didn’t laugh. She didn’t scream. She just whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Tears welled up in his eyes. “I didn’t know what to tell.”

She sat beside him, silent for a while, then said, “Were they forcing you?”

He nodded.

“But,” she added gently, “You didn’t look uncomfortable up there. You looked… free.”

He broke down.

“I didn’t choose this. They made me do it. And now I don’t know what’s me anymore.”

In the days that followed, Meera became his secret confidante.

He told her everything—the threats, the humiliation, the confusion.

But she didn’t push him. She didn’t ask if he was transgender or playing pretend. She just listened.

One day, she asked, “If they weren’t forcing you anymore, would you still wear the saree?”

Vinay didn’t answer. But later that night, alone in his room, he reached into his drawer—not out of fear, but choice. He unfolded the soft cotton saree he had kept hidden, the one he had worn on a temple trip.

He draped it slowly.

No pressure. No orders. No audience.

Just him.

Standing before the mirror, Vinaya looked back at him.

And this time, she smiled.