Trading Smiles

Vinish stood on the balcony of his 15th-floor apartment, gazing up at the night sky and wondering why his life felt so dull. It wasn’t as if he’d had a hard life, or one filled with hardship.

In fact, his childhood had been privileged. He was a gentle but clever boy from a young age, the third and youngest child in the Sethupathi family. His father, Muthu Sethupathi, was a politician and businessman, while his mother, Ganga, was the headmistress of a government girls’ high school. Their family owned a hundred-year-old bungalow surrounded by lush green fields. Their ancestors had been prominent financiers, and their legacy lived on through the family’s properties.

But Vinish never cared much for these “trivial” matters. He attended a premier school in the area but never boasted about his privileges. In contrast, his eldest brother Gautham, eight years older, always had a superiority complex. Gautham frequently belittled those less wealthy and was openly misogynistic, believing women were inferior and meant only to serve.

His sister Swetha was not much different. Whenever she could, she flaunted the family’s wealth and spoke condescendingly about their maids, seeing them as a lower species. Despite a three-year age gap, Vinish and Swetha looked almost like twins both lean and fair-skinned but this similarity went largely downplayed by their family.

Vinish finished school with good grades but struggled to make genuine friends. Those he thought of as friends turned out to be opportunists, interested only in his family’s influence. He longed to leave and build a life of his own.

Against his family’s wishes who wanted him to enroll in a local private engineering college, Vinish chose to pursue a B.Com degree at a government college in Chennai. Thanks to his excellent marks, he received a full fee waiver. His decision disappointed his family, but his father relented, saying, “He’s a boy; he can do whatever he wants.”

However, when his sister wanted to study fashion in London, their father refused, insisting, “Girls can only teach or treat, and nothing in between.” Swetha settled for a medical degree at a private university, with the family paying a hefty donation.

Now, in 2025, Vinish’s parents were content in their hometown. His mother had retired, and his father managed local political affairs from home. Gautham was married with two children; his wife, Saveetha, despite having a degree in political science, was never allowed to be involved in Gautham’s business. Gautham himself, though poorly educated, had become a leading figure in a state political party. Swetha was now married to a relative and lived as a housewife in a nearby town.

At 22, Vinish lived alone in his Chennai apartment, bought with money he’d earned himself. During college, without his family’s knowledge, he’d worked various part-time jobs and saved diligently. He invested his savings in cryptocurrency, saw substantial returns, and thus never needed to rely on his family for money or even get a conventional job.

He gradually distanced himself from his family, choosing a secluded life in his new apartment, focusing on investments but lacking any real goals. And so, on this night, he found himself staring at the sky, eventually drifting off to sleep, hoping for some change in his life.

As he slept, a shooting star streaked across the sky, and, out of nowhere, a saree floated onto his balcony. Unbeknownst to him, the wheels of change had already begun to turn.

Let’s see what the saree holds for this young man, lost and searching for hope.

The next morning, a ringing bell woke Vinish from his nap on the balcony chair. Hurriedly, he looked around to cover himself, realizing he wasn’t wearing anything on top.

The bell kept ringing. He spotted a white saree, which he initially thought was a towel since he was half asleep. Without much thought, he wrapped it around his body, over his little blue shorts. Even though he wondered why the towel was so long and smooth, he didn’t care at that moment and went to open the door.

It was 7 in the morning. As he unlocked the door, he wondered who it could be. When the door opened inward, he saw a girl standing there. She had almond-colored skin and a pixie haircut. She was tall around 5'10" definitely taller than him. She wore a plain blue saree with a matching blouse, her bra straps peeking out at the edges. For some reason, Vinish found himself staring at her.

“Good morning, sir... ma’am?” the girl broke the silence with her deep, husky voice.

Still half asleep, Vinish muttered, “Ma’am?!” He looked around and then down at the white cloth wrapped around him. It wasn’t a towel it was a long white cotton saree.

Immediately, he took it off and rushed to his bedroom to find a t-shirt, excusing himself with, “Sorry, just a minute, I’ll be right back.” The girl looked amused but stayed quiet.

He returned wearing a loose-fitting red t-shirt and sleepily started babbling about being asleep when the doorbell rang. He thought it was a towel but wasn’t sure where it had come from. “I’m definitely a sir,” he said to himself.

“Okay, okay, sir,” the girl smiled. “I’m here for the maid service you requested,” she said, handing him an ID card with her name: Arya.

“Maid service?” Vinish wondered. Then he remembered calling a maid service agency a week ago to inquire about their services. He had given some details but hadn’t confirmed anything.

“Ah, the Gokila Maid Service. Now I remember, but I didn’t confirm, right?” said Vinish.

“Yes, sir! You haven’t confirmed our services yet. I’m here to explain what we offer. If you like it, you can confirm the payment,” Arya replied.

“Oh, nice. Then please come in. I’m too lazy to tidy up, so the house is a mess,” Vinish said, glancing around the cluttered hall.

He invited her to sit on the sofa and offered her a glass of water, all the while stealing glances at her from across the room.

Arya noticed the stares but paid them no mind and began explaining the service details:

One maid will be assigned per house, and the working hours can be decided based on your requirements.

Timings can be scheduled, and a contract will be signed.

Payments should be made to the company, not directly to the maid.

Regular inspections ensure the work meets standards, and complaints can be raised if necessary.

“Sir, may I take a look around the house?” Arya asked.

“Sure, I’ll show you around,” Vinish said, giving her a tour of the cluttered apartment.

It was a two-bedroom apartment with a modular kitchen attached to the dining room, a huge hall, a study room, a big master bedroom, and an untouched guest room.

“Based on the size of your house, I’d say it would cost around Rs. 15,000 for a six-hour shift, including cleaning, cooking, and laundry,” Arya said, using the calculator on her small button phone.

“Sounds expensive,” Vinish said, looking puzzled.

“Yes, sir, I understand. But our company is one of the strictest and most organized in the city.” She showed the earrings in her right ear. “They have built-in GPS and are locked to protect our customers’ safety,” Arya added with a forced smile.

“Sounds illegal,” Vinish said with a worried face.

“Anything for the customer,” Arya replied, then laughed lightly to ease the tension.

“This is actually my first time coming to a client’s house for a demo, sir. I’ve always worked in big restaurants as a cleaner,” Arya explained.

“Oh, great then. I really need help maintaining this place. I guess I’ll book it,” Vinish said, extending his hand for a handshake.

Arya’s eyes welled up as vinish shook her hand.

“Did I do something wrong?” Vinish asked, worried.

“No, sir! Nothing wrong! It’s just that wherever I’ve been so far, people have treated maid badly. This is the first time someone has shaken my hand,” she said softly.

Vinish didn’t know what to say, so instead, he pulled her into a modest hug. After a while, she stopped sobbing. Vinish signed the agreement and made Arya a cup of tea. She exclaimed, “You make better tea than me, sir!”

They both laughed over a few things.

Arya left the house, telling Vinish she’d be there tomorrow at 8 a.m. and work until 2 p.m., leaving with a smile.

Vinish went to take a bath. He glanced at the saree on his bed, arranged it neatly, and put it inside his wardrobe. Then he sat down at his laptop to continue his work, wearing a newborn smile.

Arya was twenty-two, but she sometimes felt she’d lived a lifetime already. She and her twelve-year-old sister, Meenu, shared a cramped third-floor flat in an old, crumbling building near the railway tracks. The place was always noisy, trains rattling by, neighbors arguing, children playing cricket in the corridor. Their home was simple: a thin mattress, a faded curtain for privacy, a battered steel trunk with Arya’s father’s old shirts, and a plastic crate stacked with Meenu’s textbooks and colored pencils.

Meenu was a normal, cheerful girl ,full of questions, dreams, and laughter. She loved school, adored her friends, and sometimes teased Arya for being “so serious all the time.” Arya cherished these moments. She wanted Meenu to stay innocent, untouched by the weight of the world that pressed so heavily on Arya’s own shoulders.

Arya had always felt different. She was tall nearly 5’10” with strong arms and broad shoulders. She’d chopped her hair short at sixteen, tired of the way people stared, tired of the comments and the assumptions. At home, she wore her father’s old shirts and loose pants, relishing the way they let her breathe. The company-issued blue saree, blouse, and undergarments felt like a costume she had to put on every morning tight, synthetic, and alien against her skin.

Every evening, Arya would come home and, with a sigh of relief, strip off the uniform. She’d unclasp the bra, wriggle out of the panties, and toss them into a bucket, sometimes with a little shudder. She hated how the elastic left red marks on her skin, how the fabric felt itchy and wrong. Standing in her father’s shirt and pant, fitting her perfectly, she’d run her hands through her cropped hair, feeling almost herself again.

Sometimes, late at night, Arya would sit by the window, knees hugged to her chest, and let her thoughts wander. She could see the city lights blinking in the distance, and she’d imagine what it might be like to live in one of those high, bright apartments like the ones she cleaned. She wondered what it would feel like to have a mother who was a teacher, a father respected in the community, siblings who dreamed big and argued over dinner. Sometimes, she pictured a childhood with books, laughter, and a garden instead of chores and survival. She never let herself dwell on it for long, but the ache of that imagined life lingered, soft and persistent.

Work was strict. The Gokila Maid Service required all maids to wear company sarees and undergarments, and to check in with the supervisor by phone several times a day. There were random visits from company inspectors, who would quiz her on her schedule and inspect her uniform. The GPS-locked earrings itched her ears, a constant reminder that she was always being watched. Arya hated the lack of privacy, the sense of being owned, but she needed the job. The pay was steady, and Meenu’s school fees had to be paid on time.

Arya’s childhood had ended the day her parents died in a train accident. She’d become mother, father, and protector to Meenu overnight. She’d scrubbed floors, washed dishes, and learned to keep her pain hidden. She’d been called names “giant girl,” “boy maid,” “strange one” and learned to fight back with silence and resilience.

That morning, Arya dressed in the blue saree, clipped on the company earrings, and kissed Meenu goodbye. “I’ll bring you something sweet tonight,” she promised, and Meenu grinned, hugging her tight.

At the high-rise, Arya walked past the security desk. A woman in silk pajamas blocked her way to the elevator. “Maids take the stairs,” she said, her voice sharp and dismissive.

Arya didn’t argue. She climbed all fifteen floors, her legs aching, sweat trickling down her back. At the top, she paused, wiped her face with her pallu, and knocked on Vinish’s door.

When the door opened, Arya was caught off guard. Vinish stood there, fair and slender, with "long, silky hair that brushed his shoulders" and skin so soft it seemed to glow in the morning light. There was a gentle, almost feminine grace in the way he moved and spoke a softness in his eyes, a carefulness in his smile. Arya felt a strange sense of kinship, as if she were meeting someone else who didn’t quite fit the world’s expectations.

Inside, as she worked, Arya couldn’t help but notice the quiet comfort of Vinish’s home , a single family photo, the well-stocked bookshelves, the sense of calm. She wondered, just for a moment, what it might have been like to grow up in a place like this, with people who listened and dreams that didn’t have to be hidden.

As Arya dusted the bookshelf, Vinish entered the room, carrying two mugs of tea. “You must be tired after all those stairs,” he said disappointed and angry at the neighbour who made her climb the stairs, offering her a mug.

Arya hesitated, unused to such gestures, but accepted. The tea was sweet and milky, just how she liked it. She glanced at the family photos on the wall a younger Vinish with a woman in a crisp sari, a man in a white shirt, a girl in a graduation gown who looked like vinish himself. The faces were open and smiling.

“Is that your family?” Arya asked quietly, unable to hide her curiosity.

Vinish nodded, following her gaze. “Yes. My mother was a headmistress. My father’s in politics. They still live in our old house, outside the city.”

Arya nodded, feeling a pang she couldn’t quite name. “It looks… happy,” she said softly.

Vinish smiled, but there was a shadow in his eyes. “It was, sometimes. But every family has its secrets, its silences. I suppose we all want something different, don’t we?”

Arya sipped her tea, thinking of her own home the noise, the love, the struggle. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like,” she said, “to have a life where you don’t have to fight for every little thing. Where you can just… be.”

Vinish looked at her, really looked, and Arya felt seen in a way she hadn’t in years. “I think about that too,” he said quietly.

For a moment, they sat in silence, the city humming far below. Arya glanced at the soft rugs, the sunlight, the gentle order of Vinish’s world, and let herself imagine, just for a second, what it would be like to belong here.

When she finished her tea, Arya stood, feeling lighter. For the first time in a long while, she smiled a real, unguarded smile and Vinish smiled back, as if sharing a secret.

Maybe, she thought, this was the beginning of something different for both of them.

Part 4 – The Morning After

The next morning, the apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional clink of cups as Vinish arranged two mugs on the kitchen counter. The sunlight was softer today, drifting in through the sheer curtains and warming the tiles beneath his bare feet. He glanced at the clock: 7:56 AM.

Right on cue, the doorbell rang.

Vinish opened the door with a little more care this time. He’d been fully dressed carefully, not wanting a repeat of earlier mishap. Today, he wore a loose grey cotton kurta over soft pajama pants, his hair tied loosely at the nape. He had taken extra time brushing it out that morning, it fell silkier when he used conditioner.

Arya stood there, tall and poised in her plain blue saree, a little sweat already gathering near her temples. Her pixie cut framed her face, damp with the heat. The edge of her blouse curled slightly at the shoulder, showing a strap of her company-issued bra too tight, too visible. She gave him a half-smile.

“Good morning, sir.”

Vinish smiled back, stepping aside. “Just Vinish is fine.”

Arya paused for a second but nodded. “Okay… Vinish.”

There was a subtle tension in the way she said his name. Not discomfort just unfamiliarity, like slipping into shoes that didn’t yet fit.

She walked in, setting her small canvas bag near the shoe rack, and moved with practiced efficiency toward the kitchen.

“I made tea,” Vinish offered, holding up a mug. “Same as yesterday.”

Arya hesitated again, but the smell was too inviting. She accepted it wordlessly and sat at the kitchen table.

They sipped in silence for a while. The fan overhead ticked as it turned.

“I like your tea,” she said eventually, setting the mug down with a clink. “It reminds me of… something. Not sure what.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Vinish said, amused.

Arya gave a small shrug and moved toward the sink to begin the dishes. Her saree shifted around her with each movement, revealing how awkwardly it sat on her tall frame. Vinish watched from the doorway, noting how she used her whole body shoulders, back, even her knees to get the job done quickly. There was a kind of power in her grace. He admired it.

“Do they make you wear that?” he asked after a moment, gesturing to her uniform.

She glanced down, flicking a bit of suds off her wrist. “The saree? Yeah. And the blouse. Even the bra and panty. All issued. Scratchy, synthetic. Ugly.” She said it casually and openly, but there was a grimace on her face.

Vinish stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “I wouldn’t have guessed. I mean, you carry it well i guess.” said with a blushed face.

Arya snorted softly. “You try walking around in polyester with underwire biting your ribs. Then we’ll talk.”

He chuckled, feeling strangely light. “Fair. I’ll pass.”

Arya glanced at him. “You have good hair, by the way. What do you use?”

Vinish blinked. “Oh. Um… just a regular conditioner. Almond oil sometimes. I’ve had it long since college.”

She tilted her head, observing him. “You ever think about tying it up higher? Like a bun?”

“Too girly,” he said instinctively, then paused. “I mean… I don’t know. I guess I just do what feels right.”

Arya nodded. “Nothing wrong with a little girly. If it’s you.”

Their eyes met for a second longer than usual. Then Arya turned back to the dishes, and Vinish looked down at his tea, suddenly aware of how soft the sleeves of his kurta felt against his arms.

The hours passed as Arya cleaned dusting, sweeping, organizing small things Vinish had left out. She seemed more relaxed today, humming quietly while wiping the windows. At one point, she paused to stretch her back, the blouse riding up slightly. Vinish caught a glimpse of the red marks the bra left behind.

“You know,” he said gently, “if you ever want to change here into something more comfortable before or after work…”

Arya looked at him sharply, then softened when she saw there was no judgment in his face. “Thanks. Maybe someday,” she said.

They shared lunch again, something simple Vinish had cooked. She complimented the balance of spices, and he smiled sheepishly, not used to praise for anything domestic.

“You don’t talk much about yourself,” she said between bites.

“Neither do you,” he replied.

Arya leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fair enough. You go first.”

Vinish hesitated, then shrugged. “I’m an freelancer. Bought this place just a month ago. Trying to settle into a new life, I guess.”

“Family or friends staying nearby?”

“No friends and no contact with relatives” he said. “What about you?”

“My parents are gone,” Arya said flatly. “It’s just me and Meenu. She’s twelve. Goes to school. I do what I can.”

Vinish nodded slowly. “She’s lucky to have you.”

Arya didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then: “She says I walk like a man.”

“Maybe men walk like you,” Vinish said without thinking. Arya looked up, surprised. Then she laughed deep, genuine, warm.

At 2 PM, she washed her hands and slung her bag over one shoulder. “See you tomorrow… Vinish.”

He smiled. “See you, Arya.”

After she left, Vinish stood for a long time by the closed door. He walked slowly into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. The soft curve of his lips. The gentle line of his jaw. The way his kurta hung on his shoulders. He tried tying his hair into a small bun, just to see.

Something fluttered inside him.

Maybe, he thought, people were just stories waiting to be written properly.

Part 5 — A Week of Small Things

It had been a week since Arya first walked into Vinish’s apartment.

Seven mornings of opening his door to her tired but determined face. Seven afternoons of quiet, interrupted only by the clink of dishes, the sweep of the broom, and the occasional, cautious conversation over tea.

In that time, something unspoken had started to settle between them, not quite friendship yet, but no longer just the routine exchange between employer and maid.

They hadn’t addressed it directly, but Arya no longer called him sir. That had slipped away sometime.

She’d been scrubbing the kitchen tiles, sweat gathering at her temples, when she asked, without looking up, “Vinish, do you have a spare bucket?”

The moment passed without correction. He’d simply nodded, and from then on, that was his name.

The Week went by with them socializing and opening up their personal lives to one another.

✦ One Small Gift

On the Fourteenth day, Arya had come in a little quieter than usual. Her hair, cropped short in its usual pixie cut, was damp from a quick wash. She hadn’t tied it back, and it clung to her forehead as she set down her cleaning bag.

Vinish noticed, but said nothing.

Later that morning, while Arya was scrubbing the bathroom tiles, he placed a small paper bag on the counter, next to her water bottle. Inside: a new box of colored pencils, a geometry set, and two bars of chocolate ,one dark, one milk.

A handwritten note peeked from the side:
“For Meenu. I hope she likes bright things.”

Arya didn’t mention it until she was leaving. Then, almost offhand, she said, “Meenu drew a pink horse with blue stars and named it after you.”

Vinish blinked. “A horse?”

“She said it’s gentle but doesn’t like crowds,” Arya said, a slight smile tugging at her lips. “Suits you.”

He chuckled, not knowing what to say, and Arya just gave a small nod and walked out the door.

It was Day Twenty.

The fan whirred lazily overhead as Arya mopped the floor in slow, practiced strokes. Vinish sat at the dining table, typing something on his laptop, but mostly watching her. He’d noticed the way she always lifted her saree above her knees when she worked, tying it into a loose knot so it wouldn’t get wet. Her legs bore faint marks, red lines that seemed to echo tight elastic.

He hesitated, then spoke. “Those look painful.”

Arya paused, followed his gaze. “They’re from the company panties. The elastic cuts in when I sweat too much.”

Vinish looked up, surprised by her bluntness.

She shrugged. “We’re required to wear them. Blouse, saree, bra, panties ,all issued. Cheap and scratchy. They check sometimes, randomly. It’s humiliating.”

He said nothing at first, unsure what he was allowed to say.

“I didn’t know they could do that.”

“They do.” She moved to the sink, twisting her back slightly. “The bra’s the worst part. Wires that jab, straps that itch. You spend six hours trying not to notice it’s choking you.”

Vinish imagined that — the silent endurance. He’d never worn anything close to that, but for the first time, he was curious. Not out of spectacle, but empathy. What did it feel like to wear something that made your own body feel like a cage?

“Is it like that every day?”

Arya turned, wiping sweat from her brow. “Yeah. Every day. I get home and strip it off like it’s on fire.”

He smiled faintly, but didn’t laugh. “That sounds... awful.”

Arya glanced at him. “You ever worn something uncomfortable?”

Vinish thought for a moment. “Once, to a wedding. A stiff sherwani with gold thread. Looked good in pictures. Felt like I was being embalmed.”

Arya laughed ,genuinely. “Exactly.”

She stood, stretching her arms above her head, revealing more of the fading marks along her ribs.

“You ever thought of switching jobs?” he asked gently.

Arya lowered her arms. “What else is there? I didn’t finish school. Meenu’s still in it. She’s smart. But someone’s got to keep the lights on.”

He nodded. There was nothing romantic in her words, no drama. Just fact.

“I’ve been thinking about trying to cook,” he said suddenly, glancing at the kitchen. “Something proper. instant foods. Will you tell me if I burn the rice?”

Arya grinned. “I’ll try not to be too harsh.”

✦ Later That Day

When Arya was done, she rinsed her hands and took the tea Vinish had poured strong, fragrant, a touch of lemongrass. He always made it just right.

They sat at the table again. Not quite side by side. Not quite across either.

Arya looked at the bookshelf. “You read a lot?”

“Used to,” he said. “Haven’t in a while. Been busy.”

“Doing what?”

He hesitated. “Figuring things out.”

Arya didn’t press. Instead, she offered something of her own. “When I was little, I thought I'd grow up to be a Politician No idea why. Just liked how they had the Power .”

Vinish smiled. “Maybe that’s what you need. I find that life boring, i need a life where I'm constantly reminded that i am alive.”

“Or maybe you just need better tea,” she said, sipping it with a raised eyebrow.

He grinned. “Are you insulting my tea?”

“No,” Arya said. “It’s the best part of my day.”

✦ A Subtle Shift

That evening, Vinish sat alone after Arya left, watching the empty space she’d occupied just an hour ago.

He looked down at the table, then at his reflection in the window.

Something was shifting. Not suddenly. Not dramatically.

But he’d started to notice the world differently.

He looked at his hands slender fingers, neatly kept nails. He remembered Arya’s voice, the way she spoke of her discomfort like it was nothing new. Like it was just part of breathing.

He went to his wardrobe and took out the white saree and just placed it on his shoulders and looked at himself in the mirror.

And for the first time in a long while, Vinish wondered what it might feel like to walk in someone else’s shoes ,not metaphorically, but actually. What it would feel like to wear something that changed how the world looked at you. Or how you looked at yourself.

He didn’t know yet.

But he wanted to.