Only for a few hours...Right?

After the Funerals, A Quiet Corner

The new house sat near the edge of the village, a modest cement structure with two rooms, a low mossy compound wall, and a gate that creaked every time the wind passed through. There was nothing fancy about it, and yet for Arun and Pavithra, it was more than they could ask for.

It was the government’s way of doing, something, after both teenagers lost their families in two unrelated but cruelly timed accidents. Arun’s parents had died in a bus crash just two months before Pavithra’s mother lost her battle to illness. With no other close relatives to claim them, the panchayat, through a newly launched rehabilitation scheme, allotted them a joint living space and a modest monthly support amount, provided they stayed in a rural village. It was meant to give orphans “a fresh beginning” though no one ever asked if they wanted one.

Arun was 21 born in Chennai, but his life felt paused. He had completed his degree quietly and had been working from home in temporary contracts while waiting for his long-delayed Group IV interview call. Since moving here, he hadn’t left the house much. They moved in right after Pavithra's SSLC exams ended.

He didn’t want to.

Too many eyes.

Too many whispers.

Too many people saying, “Ivan paiyan-a? Illa ponnaa?”

Shadows in Contrast:

Arun stood at 5’4, with a lean body that never quite caught up to adult masculinity. His skin was pale, with a polished softness that never needed cream. His eyes, almond-shaped and wide, always made him look surprised. His lips were full and soft-pink. But the most talked-about thing, especially when he went into town, was his hair thick, black, long, and always freshly oiled. It reached well below his shoulders when unbraided. He didn't cut it because it reminded him of his long dead akka.

No one would say it to his face, but more than once, strangers assumed he was someone’s younger sister or daughter. From behind, he had been called “chinna ponnu” more times than he cared to remember.

What made it worse was the way his body betrayed him. His chest wasn’t flat. Without any hormone, exercise, or effort, there were soft, visible curves slight, but present. Mounds. No matter how many layers he wore, they existed bouncing subtly with every step. His college nickname, cruelly whispered behind his back, was “half girl.”

Below the waist was no comfort either. He had never had to “adjust” himself the way other boys did. Even the tightest underwear fit like it was made for a girl. His private part was so small it never caused discomfort. Not once had he stood shirtless before anyone since puberty.

Pavithra was 16, in contrast, was like a carved block of stone ,tall, raw, sharp-angled. At 5’6, she had the stance and stride of a boy who grew up playing cricket with older brothers. Her hair, roughly cut just above the nape, stuck up at odd places. Her limbs were all elbows and knees, and she had no curves to speak of. Her voice was deep and scratchy, like someone still recovering from a throat infection only, it had always been that way.

People often mistook them not by mistake, but by instinct. Villagers sometimes addressed her as “-pa” and Arun as “-ma” in passing. At first it hurt. Then it became normal.

Fever and a Favour:

That morning, the smell of Amrutanjan and hot rice water filled the house. Pavithra lay curled under a thin sheet, her body flushed and damp. The fever had come suddenly the night before, stealing her energy and her sharp voice.

Arun sat by her bed, wiping her forehead with a wet towel.

“I need to go,” she mumbled hoarsely. “Today is the signing day. If I don’t, they’ll cancel my admission and my scholarship.”

“Sign what?” he asked.

“11th standard joining register. It’s just a signature maybe thumbprint. No classes. Just formality.”

“Can’t they postpone? Tell them you're sick?”

“No one cares. It’s a government school. If you don’t show up, they assume you don’t want the seat.”

Arun hesitated. “I can go with you—”

“I can’t even stand up, Arun…”

Her fingers trembled as she reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“You go.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“You go in my place. Just once. Nobody will notice.”

“I’m… a guy, Pavithra. You really think they’ll let me walk in there?”

“They won’t check and they don't know me nor do they have a database with photos”. They won’t even look. It’s just a rural girls school. You wear uniform, sign, and walk out.”

“I don’t even know how to wear that stuff,” he said, his voice already shaking.

“I’ll teach you,” she said, almost pleading. “I kept a spare set. Brand new.”

“I’ll look— I’ll look like some kind of—”

She cut him off, eyes fierce despite her pale face. “You’ll look like me. Better, actually. You already do. Everyone thinks you're a girl anyway. This will just… confirm it.”

Arun’s heart pounded in his chest.

“I’m not like you,” he said softly.

She didn’t reply at first. Then, in a cracked whisper: “If you don’t help me today… I may lose this seat. And then what, Arun? No Amma. No Appa. No future. We’re just here in this empty house. Alone.”

He looked down.

She looked smaller than ever, sick and fragile, and yet , somehow , still in control. Like she was always the stronger one. He felt ashamed for even hesitating.

He saw the blue cloth bag at her bedside.

“Clothes are inside,” she whispered.

The Pile of Girlhood:

Arun opened the bag slowly. Everything smelled faintly of soap and something else --- teenage girl.

He lifted out the uniform piece by piece:

A blue checkered kurti, short-sleeved with a open collar.

Loose, blue salwar pants with wide legs.

A navy blue sleeveless overcoat, stiff with starch.

A folded camisole , soft white cotton, almost translucent.

A light pink panty, tiny hearts printed all over.

A faded white training bra, elastic stretched, cups small.

Black socks, Bata school shoes.

A black comb, maroon hair ribbons, and a small sheet of round black bindis.

His hands trembled as he laid them out on the bed. It was too real now.

She reached up from the bed and picked up the bra.

“Holding it like this… it looks small. But for you… it’ll fit. It might even be tight.”

He swallowed.

“Why?”

She smirked, weakly.

“You have more… than me.”

The Trial Dressing:

He went into the back room and locked the door, heart pounding louder than the ceiling fan.

He peeled off his T-shirt and jeans. His reflection stared back, smooth arms, thin waist, narrow shoulders, the slight swell on his chest unmistakable.

He picked up the pink panty. He hesitated… and then slid it up.

No resistance. No bulge. No shame from below. It just fit. Perfectly.

And then the bra.

His fingers fumbled at the clasp. When he finally fastened it and adjusted the straps, the pressure shocked him.

His flesh filled it. No stuffing needed. The elastic band pulled against his ribs. Every breath reminded him it was there.

Then the camisole - thin and breathable. It hugged his chest softly, almost like a whisper. It made the curves feel more visible.

Then came the kurti, soft and well-stitched. The fabric settled over his body like it belonged there, curving just slightly over the bra cups. He couldn’t see them much but he could feel them.

The salwar pants tied at the waist, loose and floaty.

The overcoat came last, sharp and school-like.

When he looked at the mirror again, a stranger stared back.

Final Touches from the Real Girl:

Pavithra sat up on her bed as he stepped out.

She blinked, her expression shifting from amused to strangely moved.

“You… look exactly like someone I imagined once.”

She pulled him down and began to part his long hair gently, fingers skilled despite the fever.

She braided it neatly, tied the maroon ribbons, and stuck a bindi between his soft eyebrows.

“You walk like me?” she asked.

He tried.

“Hmm. Loosen your hips. Not too much. Just… let the salwar swing.”

She adjusted his overcoat, dusted his shoulders, and helped him into the black socks and shoes.

“They’re a little tight,” he winced.

“You’ll manage. You’re used to pain in worse places,” she joked.

He gave a nervous smile. The bra tugged every time he lifted his arms. His panty was hugging him warmly. His braids bounced when he moved his head.

He was too afraid to speak.

She whispered, “Say something.”

“…Enna solla?” he asked quietly.

Her eyes sparkled.

“Perfect.”

Through the Gate:

He clutched the file tightly to his chest and stepped out.

Every sound felt louder. Every movement made him aware of how differently he was dressed.

The villagers on the street smiled politely.

“school ku poriyama?,” one old lady said.

He nodded, heart thudding.

He couldn’t respond. He was afraid his voice would break the illusion.

The school gate appeared - yellow paint peeling, a rusted sign declaring “Educating a Girl is Educating a Nation.”

The old watchwoman looked up from her stool.

“Late-a vandhutiya, ma?”

He nodded slightly, keeping his voice low. She gestured him in.

He didn’t notice the small camera overhead - it blinked once, logging time, date, and image.

He crossed the gate.

A part of him knew he could still run.

But he didn’t.

And in that moment - without a single mistake, word, or resistance - his identity began to shift, in silent ways he could never undo.

Author’s Note:

Hi, I’m Jerusha Anne Joy, a writer who enjoys exploring identity, emotion, and transformation often through stories involving forced change and characters of both genders.

I am a sloth myself (⁠*⁠﹏⁠*⁠;⁠) , so it takes time for me to complete stories, but I love building slow, immersive journeys. I’ve also some (albeit unsuccessful) written science fiction and coming-of-age tales under a different pen name.

This particular genre has always fascinated me, and my inspiration comes from creators like Jessica and Anjali. I believe in thoughtful storytelling that lingers with readers long after the last word.

Thank you for reading, I hope my stories leave you curious, moved, and wanting more.

Part 2: The Line That Erased Him

The Gate and the Gaze:

The moment Arun ,dressed now fully as Pavithra, stepped through the rusting school gate, something inside him twisted.

The painted yellow arch above read,
"Government Girls Higher Secondary School – Empowering Our Daughters."

A camera, discreetly fixed to the gatepost, clicked softly. He barely noticed. The plastic file in his hand felt slippery from sweat, and his fingers kept brushing against the edge of his salwar pants, trying to find some anchor. They were loose, airy, and unfamiliar - shifting every time he moved. Unlike trousers, there was no weight. Just flow and softness.

The fabric swished around his legs, occasionally catching on the camisole underneath, which had already soaked with nervous sweat along his back. It clung to his skin where it shouldn’t especially around his midsection, where the bra strap sat like a quiet noose, always pressing, always present.

He passed two teachers sitting near the entrance on a bench.

“பவித்ரா… late-a vandhurukkura,” one mumbled looking at the list.

Neither raised an eyebrow.

No suspicion. Not even a glance of doubt.

They saw a girl. Just another girl in uniform.

Each Step In Her Shoes:

The Bata shoes pinched at the heel with every step. His feet were slightly wider than Pavithra’s, but soft, unused to rough surfaces. Every stone or crack in the ground sent a pulse through the thin sole. His socks were damp with sweat already.

The bra was worse.

Not in pain ,it didn’t hurt ,but it held him in a way nothing ever had. His chest, naturally soft, filled the cups disturbingly well. There was no need for stuffing. Every bounce, every breath made the thin elastic band shift against his skin, rubbing his sides, reminding him of what he shouldn't be feeling.

He tugged at the shoulder strap once discreetly - but it only made it worse. The hook dug in tighter.

From behind him, a group of three girls whispered.

“அவள பார்த்தியா… ரொம்ப அழகா இருக்கா.”

“New joiner pola…”

He didn’t dare turn.

The Queue That Waited for Her

He reached the courtyard.

A long queue had already formed near the main building. A banner flapped above the entrance:

"Sakthi Smart Girl Scheme – Biometric Integration Centre."

Arun swallowed.

This wasn’t a simple signature visit. Not a roll-call. Not a token presence.

Inside that hall, girls were walking in as names. And walking out as data - scanned, verified, stamped.

He clutched the file tightly.

In front of him was a girl chewing gum, bored. Behind him came a voice.

“Hi. First time?”

He turned.

A taller girl, dusky and confident, with thick eyebrows and a piercing smile, studied him.

“I’m Swathi,” she offered, casually. “New girl?”

He nodded. “Yes… I’m Pavithra.”

“Nice. Cute name. It suits you.”

She leaned in a little. “Your kurti’s a little tucked up on the left. And your… bra strap’s poking out.”

He blinked. “Oh…”
He reached awkwardly behind his shoulder and adjusted it.

Swathi watched with a playful grin. “Enna da, very prim and proper ah irukka. Full girl model.”

He flushed, silently pulling the sleeve down.

“Your figure’s too good for a school girl,” she whispered. “Boys will go mad.”

The False Doorway:

Inside the block, the air was cooler but heavy. A low hum of printers, fans, and quiet Tamil announcements filled the space.

A lady in a pale blue cotton saree greeted him with a clipboard.

“Name?”

“Pavithra S.”

She looked at the file and ticked it.

“Standard: 11th, Section A. Sit there. Your turn soon.”

The chair squeaked under him. He shifted, feeling the layers of girl’s underclothes soft panty, tight camisole, snug bra all stacked where his boyhood had once belonged. The salwar had pulled slightly up, showing a bit of his ankle. He quickly adjusted.

His palms were wet with sweat.

Another officer called out: “Pavithra S!”

He stood slowly and walked to the desk.

A large screen faced him, and beside it, a biometric kit fingerprint pad, facial scanner, webcam, microphone.

The woman smiled warmly. “Don’t be scared. It’s a new process. You’re lucky to be in one of the pilot schools.”

“Pilot?”

“Yes. This school is part of the Sakthi Smart Girl Scheme. Integrated identity system. Once done, your entire record is locked and matched. Aadhaar, birth certificate, school admission — even passport eligibility — all linked to your biometric profile.”

Arun’s heart sank.

“But… is it needed now?”

“It’s mandatory for 11th. All new admissions undergo it. Don’t worry, it protects girls from identity theft, marriage fraud, trafficking… very safe.”

He felt trapped.

“Just give your right thumb.”

He did. The soft pad of his finger touched the scanner. The light blinked.

“Hmm… smooth hands,” she murmured. “You must not help in the kitchen much.”

He smiled awkwardly.

Then each finger. Then left hand. Then retina scan.

Then, she adjusted the webcam.

“Bindi perfect ah irukku… smile a bit.”

The flash clicked. His soft cheeks and nervous eyes stared back from the screen.

He looked like a shy, well-behaved schoolgirl.

Then came the voice scan.

“Repeat this: நான் பவித்ரா. பதினொன்றாம் வகுப்பு மாணவி.”

He hesitated. His throat was dry.
He cleared it gently.

Then in his soft, high-pitched natural voice, he said:

“நான் பவித்ரா… பதினொன்றாம் வகுப்பு மாணவி…”

The system beeped.

“Perfect match,” she said. “You have a beautiful voice.”

He nodded, dizzy.

The Signature That Broke Him:

She handed him the tablet.

“Sign to confirm identity and issue new documents.”

He stared at the screen. His chest rose and fell. The bra was still pressing, unforgiving. His name stared back at him — Pavithra S.

His fingers moved automatically.

One stroke. Then the next.

Done.

✅ Biometric Identity Matched.
⚠️ Prior Identity documents Invalidated.
🪪 New ID Generated: Pavithra S (F)

His breath caught. “Wait… invalidated?”

She smiled.

“All previous UIDs are now archived. You are legally registered under the new profile. Gender: Female. Status: Active. Full scholarship granted. You’ll get everything by courier Aadhaar, birth certificate, even passport ID.”

He blinked, tears forming faintly.

“What if… mistake happened?”

“There’s no mistake,” she said kindly. “The system checks fingerprints, face, voice. You are Pavithra. You're officially a girl in the eyes of the state.”

The Walk Home in Her Skin:

He exited the block, stunned.

The sun had shifted. It was hotter. Harsher.

Every element on his body now felt more real. More permanent.

The bra wasn't just pressing - it was anchoring him. The panty stuck slightly at the sides. His legs felt exposed despite the loose salwar. His braids bounced with every step.

And in his file:

A birth certificate that said Female.

An Aadhaar that named him Pavithra S.

A passport pre-filled.

His original male identity: gone.

Swathi passed by and smiled. “You look dazed. Was it scary?”

He nodded. “A little…”

“You’ll get used to it. We all did. You’ll love school you’ll fit right in.”

He smiled faintly, then turned to leave the school compound.

Nobody had seen Arun.

Because Arun no longer existed.

There was only Pavithra S - delicate, shy, newly registered girl student of the Government Girls Higher Secondary School.

And in seven days, school would begin
with her first full day as herself.

Part 3: Mistaken, Marked, and Too Late
Final Extended Edition

A Long Walk, A Different Body:

The sun had sharpened by noon, casting a golden haze over the gravel path that led from the school to the fields. Arun - legally now Pavithra S. - took his first slow steps past the school gate.

He felt... wrong.

The weight of the file tugged down against the thin kurti strap that clung over his left shoulder. The tight bra, soaked in sweat, bit into his back like a second spine. The camisole beneath his kurti had nearly fused with his damp skin, sticking to the soft curve of his belly and chest like glue.

Each step reminded him of what he now was - or at least what the system believed he was.

The soft rustle of the cream salwar pants brushing between his thighs, the faint tug of the bra strap slipping down his left arm ,he wasn’t walking like himself anymore. He wasn’t Arun. Not in the eyes of the school. Not in the records. Not even in the mirror.

His hips swayed slightly with the movement of his slender legs, involuntarily feminine. The black school shoes , a size too small ,pressed into the soft sides of his feet, making him wince. He had delicate ankles, too - thinner than Pavithra’s - and they were already red from the friction of the stiff shoe edges.

Two boys riding a cycle passed by, laughing, and one slowed down just enough to glance at him.

“dei paaru da... Azhagana school ponnu...”

Arun froze. He lowered his face.

They didn’t recognize him.
They saw a girl.
A pretty girl.

His braid - the left one - had come slightly loose from all the sweat. It brushed against the curve of his cheek and clung to his neck. He tried pushing it away, but the oil Pavithra had applied the night before had made it sticky and heavy.

Even the bindi had begun to smudge slightly, sliding down just a touch, catching sunlight.

He passed a small puddle by the roadside and glanced down at his reflection.

For a split second, even he didn’t recognize the girl staring back.

Skin and Shame:

He walked slower now. The road home felt longer than it had ever been. The humid village heat clung to his body like a jealous lover.

A gentle breeze passed, and the kurti - damp with sweat at the waist and back - lifted slightly and fell again, clinging to his figure.

That cursed figure.

He had always been embarrassed by his chest, soft, fuller than most boys. In school, it was the reason he wore two shirts and kept his back hunched. But now, in a girl’s school uniform, stuffed into Pavithra’s bra, there was no hiding.

Even worse - it fit him better than it fit her.

The fabric stretched slightly around his chest, shaping him into something unmistakably feminine. His nipples, sore and sensitive from the constant friction, brushed lightly against the cotton lining of the bra. A strange and constant awareness had begun to creep into his mind, not arousal, but exposure. Vulnerability.

“I’m not even tucking anymore…” he realized in a wave of shame. The panty Pavithra gave him was soft, hugging his hips snugly and doing most of the flattening. But it wasn’t just hiding something. It was replacing something.

He felt... erased.

Each time his hips shifted, he felt how little was left of his boyhood. Or perhaps how little had existed in the first place.

Meanwhile, At Home:

Back at the tiny government-allotted house, Pavithra had dressed casually in Arun’s old shirt and lungi-style shorts. Her short hair was messy, and her voice, hoarse from a recent cold, had taken on a lower register.

She had no bindi, no plaits, no earrings. Her stance was firm, careless - like any boy in the village.

She didn't look like a girl. Not anymore.

The knock at the door came sharp and quick.

Two officers -one woman, one man stood with purpose and paperwork.

“Yes?” Pavithra asked.

“We’re here to verify a biometric sync flagged today for Arun Subramanian,” the woman said, tapping a tablet. “Routine house verification. Aadhaar reissue.”

“I… uh… that’s me,” Pavithra said slowly, realizing too late what was happening.

They stepped in.

“Sir, just need your thumb and iris again for full match. New card will be auto-linked and posted. You're one of the flagged Aadhaar holders who were due for replacement after the educational sync program.”

“But---” she tried, but her voice cracked low.

The male officer smiled. “Voice change, ah sir? Growing up, huh?” he said with a laugh. “Your previous photo showed long hair.”

Pavithra glanced toward the mirror. Her reflection didn’t help.

Shirt half-unbuttoned. Slouched shoulders. No trace of the girl they expected. She looked like Arun. Sounded like him. Was him - at least to them.

They handed her the biometric tablet.

She hesitated - but her fingerprint had already been taken.
The iris scanner beeped.
The screen lit up: Match Confirmed.
Arun Subramanian. Male. Age 21.

“Thank you, sir,” the woman said.

A small printer whirred.

Out came a receipt and a plastic ID card.

Name: Arun Subramanian
Gender: Male
Photo: Pavithra
Status: Verified and Linked

It was done.

The woman looked around and noticed the pink bangles on the shelf. She smiled at Pavithra.

“Your sister’s things?”

Pavithra blinked. “Yes.”

“Very pretty set,” she said warmly. “Tell her to stay inside on hot days.”

Ready to leave.

The Return:

Arun finally reached the edge of the yard. His bra had shifted again, the left strap slipping slightly down his smooth, sweat-soaked arm. He tugged it awkwardly beneath the overcoat.

He stood outside the gate.

Through the half-open door, he could hear murmurs, paper rustling, a printer. His heart dropped.

He stepped inside quietly, his braid slightly frayed, kurti sticking to his waist and chest.

And there - at the table -stood her.

Pavithra.

Dressed like him.
Spoken to like him.
Named like him.

In her hand was an Aadhaar printout.
With his name.
But her face.

And they turned to him - the officials.

The woman smiled at Arun, mistaking him for the sister.

“Your thangachi is beautiful. She looks just like a Chennai convent girl,” she said. “She must be the school topper, no?”

Pavithra laughed awkwardly. “Yes... she’s shy.”

The man nodded. “Be careful, ma. Pretty girls like you ; the boys will never leave you alone. That uniform suits you too well.”

Arun didn’t reply. He couldn’t.

He stood trembling in the doorway, bra clasp biting into his spine, chest damp beneath the tight fabric, long braids stuck to his cheeks.

He couldn’t breathe.

And on the table, that small plastic ID card still glinted —
His name,
Her face,
Their mistake.

No ....not a mistake.

A transfer.

A legal, irreversible exchange.

She had become him.
He had become her.

And nobody in the system would ever know.

Part 4: No Way Back, No Way Out

The Silence After the Storm:

The room was quiet, unbearably so. The only sound was the slow whir of the ceiling fan and the creak of the worn cot beneath Arun as he sat awkwardly in Pavithra’s uniform, still sweating from the walk. His bra, damp from the heat, clung to his chest, digging into his ribs. The soft cotton of the salwar was now almost translucent near the thighs from the sweat, sticking against his skin. The thick schoolgirl braid brushed against his collarbone every time he moved.

Across from him, Pavithra sat with her elbows on her knees, still in the half-buttoned men’s shirt she’d been mistaken in. Her expression was unreadable.

Arun swallowed. “So now you’re Arun.”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she pushed the newly issued Aadhaar card across the table. Her photo. His name.

Arun held up his ID with trembling hands. His own face - plaited hair, bindi, soft cheeks, pink uniform - under the name “Pavithra Subramanian.” Gender: Female. Age: 16.

They stared at each other.

“We have one week before school opens,” she finally said. “We can’t go there like this. We need to act. Fast.”

The Plan:

They pulled out an old calendar and circled the date school reopened. Seven days.

Arun traced his finger on the table. “We need to reverse this legally. I’ll find out if the biometric sync can be undone. Maybe with a lawyer. Or the Collector Office. Or something.”

Pavithra looked at him, her short hair falling across her eyes. “Meanwhile, we need to stay in character. You’ll have to be me. And I… you.”

Arun looked down at himself—the smooth skin of his legs peeking out from beneath the folded salwar, the faint curve of his chest shaped unnaturally by the bra. His fingers, slender and trembling, twisted the loose end of his dupatta.

“I can’t keep dressing like this...”

Pavithra gave a tired smile. “You look more like a girl than I ever did.”

The Days Between:

The next two days passed slowly. Arun stayed indoors mostly, venturing out only after dusk. During the daytime, he wore Pavithra’s old clothes: soft printed nighties that flowed around his legs when he walked; a pink cotton one with cartoon bears, and another pale blue one with a floral pattern and tiny satin bows.

The necklines were low and airy, revealing the faint shadow of his collarbone. The fabric was smooth, and he felt strangely exposed.

Even worse were the undergarments. Pavithra insisted he wear her cotton panties and soft bras “to stay in practice.” He resisted at first, but every time he looked in the mirror, he saw someone who could pass for a village schoolgirl.

He spent hours online using Pavithra’s phone, searching for legal loopholes. Most forums were filled with bureaucratic jargon and impossible procedures.

The Package That Killed Hope:

On the third morning, a white envelope stamped by the Government of Tamil Nadu arrived.

Pavithra opened it with shaking hands.

Inside were two sets of identity bundles. Arun opened his—

Name: Pavithra Subramanian
Gender: Female
Birth Certificate: Female
School Admission ID: Female
Passport Enrollment Slip: Female, Pending Dispatch

Photo: His own face, smiling softly in a braid, bindi glowing.

Pavithra’s bundle read:

Name: Arun Subramanian
Gender: Male
Driving License: Valid
Community Certificate: Male

The transformation was complete.

Arun stared for a long time.

Then quietly folded the envelope and placed it back.

The Day of Shopping:

On the fifth day, they had to buy textbooks, notebooks, extra uniforms, socks, ribbons, and undergarments for the school term.

Pavithra wore one of Arun’s collared shirts, tucked into jeans. With her short hair and direct voice, she passed easily.

Arun wore a flowing maroon cotton churidar, the fabric light and brushing around his legs. His innerwear included a padded bra and snug matching maroon panties Pavithra had freshly washed for him.

On his feet: plastic purple sandals with a single strap and toe loop, dainty and too thin to walk fast in.

His ears were pierced. Pavithra clipped on simple gold jhumkis, and around his neck she tied a delicate gold chain with a tiny Lakshmi pendant.

“It’s just one outing,” she said. “Behave like you’re me. That means shoulders down, no loud walking, no scratching, and always adjust your dupatta if it slides.”

He stepped out feeling utterly bare.

Every eye at the village shopping street looked.

Old women smiled. “Such a pretty girl.”

Boys whispered.

Inside the stationery shop, he picked out pens and notebooks silently. Pavithra watched from the boys’ section, occasionally raising an eyebrow.

At the uniform shop, the lady asked Arun to try on a new set. She guided him behind a cloth partition.

He hesitated.

“Remove your top and try this, kanna,” she said sweetly.

Arun changed slowly. The new uniform was tighter than before. The bra pushed his chest higher. When he stepped out, the lady gasped.

“You’re growing fast, ma. Your hips too!”

He flushed red.

The License Check:

On the ride home, they passed a local police checkpost. Two constables waved the scooter to a halt.

Pavithra, in jeans and a men’s shirt, showed the driving license.

The constable frowned.

“Arun Subramanian?”

She nodded.

“Wait… then she?” — he pointed to Arun, now clutching the back of the seat, gold earrings glinting.

“My sister,” Pavithra said confidently.

The constable looked Arun up and down.

“You studying in the Girls School a, ma?”

Arun nodded quickly, braid bouncing.

The man grinned.

“Tell her to dress properly. Boys in our Village will fall for her like nothing.”

Pavithra revved the engine. “We will. She’s still adjusting.”

As they drove away, Arun buried his face behind her back.

The Night Talk:

That evening, still in the maroon churidar and soft gold chain, Arun sat cross-legged on the cot, sipping watery rasam. The purple slippers lay near his feet.

Pavithra joined him.

“two days left. What have we found?”

Arun shook his head.

“Nothing can reverse synced biometrics without a government directive. It’s permanent.”

She sighed. “Then we act. You go to school. As Pavithra. I stay here. And find a way to fix this silently.”

He looked down.

“I wore a padded bra today,” he whispered. “And gold. And I passed.”

“That’s the only good news we have.”

They sat in silence, the evening breeze stirring the corner of his dupatta.

Arun didn’t sleep that night. The soft cotton nighty he wore fluttered against his legs, and the tiny white bow at his chest reminded him of what he had become.

The new Pavithra.

And he wasn’t sure anymore who he really was.

Part 5: Her First Day – The Classroom, the Chain, and the Whispered Giggles

Dawn: Becoming Pavithra Again:

Arun stirred beneath the thin bedsheet, feeling the morning air against his smooth legs. Pavithra tugged at his shoulder, her voice playful. "Get up, ponnu. You take longer than me to dress these days."

He sat up slowly, the lavender nightie clinging to his soft torso, and rubbed his eyes. The frills at the sleeves grazed his wrists.

Pavithra had already laid out the school uniform on the bed: a neatly ironed deep navy-blue salwar, matching pants, and a sky-blue overcoat stitched perfectly over the chest area. Beside it, a soft white bra, lavender panties, and a thin camisole. A new pair of dark blue slippers, a small bottle of talcum powder, and a gold chain and small matching studs completed the look.

He stepped into the bathroom, changed slowly, each layer bringing back discomfort. The fresh cotton bra cupped him tightly; the soft camisole clung to his sweaty skin. The salwar pants brushed against his legs lightly, making him overly aware of every curve. Pavithra braided his hair again - the tight pulling of the scalp, the white ribbons - all part of the morning ritual now.

"You forgot something," she said, clipping on the tiny gold stud earrings, then looping the thin chain around his neck. "You need to look respectable. First impressions matter."

Arun stared at his reflection. A quiet girl with smooth cheeks, sharp eyes, and two soft braids stared back.

The Scooty Ride:

Pavithra rolled out Arun’s old Scooty, now officially hers thanks to the license swap. She wore Arun’s checked shirt, pants, and strapped shoes. No one questioned her anymore.

Arun climbed up behind her, adjusting his salwar to avoid it riding up. He sat sideways (because the backseat of the scooty got damaged)- knees together, shoes flat. As they passed the village square, eyes turned. One old man waved at Pavithra.

The worst was a group of boys at the tea stall. One nudged another and said, “Dei, look at that girl behind him. Tight braids and all… Who is she? From the town ah?”

Arun tightened his grip on Pavithra’s shoulders.

School Gate and Assembly:

The school entrance was abuzz - girls adjusting their braids, tucking in blouses, and giggling about teachers. Arun walked in, his shoes slapping against the tiles, his overcoat swaying lightly, exposing hints of his form.

Swathi rushed over, squealing. “Pavithraaa! You look like a fresh heroine today. Look at this chain! So cute.”

She adjusted Arun’s salwar drawstring, then whispered, “Make sure you don’t bend too much. Your... you know… will show.”

The assembly was intense. As they stood in rows, a senior whispered behind him, “That new girl looks like she’s from a city convent. So polished.”

The sun was sharp. Sweat pooled under his bra strap, and he could feel it stick to his back. The principal called for ID distribution. Arun’s turn came.

“Pavithra Subramanian, XI-A.”

He stepped forward. The card displayed his new photo - braids, bindi, faint smile.

Swathi peeked over. “Confirmed! You’re officially one of us.”

Classroom: A New World

Inside the classroom, Arun took a seat beside Swathi. Girls passed notes and laughed. One wrote “Jerusha 💕 STR” on the bench with her pen. Another wrote:

"Never talk to boys alone"

A teacher entered - her voice booming, her saree rustling. “Open your English notes.”

Arun straightened. As he bent slightly, Swathi hissed, “Pavithraaa! Your chain slipped out!” She quickly fixed it, her fingers brushing his chest.

He scribbled in the notebook - his handwriting precise. The teacher praised his sentence construction. “Very neat, Pavithra. You’ll be a top student.”

Restroom Break:

Later, Swathi dragged him to the girls' restroom. It smelled of rose powder and sanitizer. Inside, girls applied lip balm, adjusted hair ties, and talked about boys from the nearby boys’ school.

Arun ducked into a stall. Sitting felt awkward in the tight salwar. His chain swayed gently as he leaned forward. He flushed and exited quickly.

A junior girl outside beamed. “Akka! Your hair is sooo neat. My mother says only good girls wear white ribbons. Can you show me how to plait like that?”

“Uh… sure,” he muttered, awkwardly.

Midday: Juniors and Giggles:

Lunch brought more surprises. Arun opened the tiffin Pavithra packed: curd rice, pickle, and banana chips. Girls clustered around him. One junior asked, “Akka, can you teach handwriting? Mine is very ugly.”

Another asked shyly, “Where did you buy your bangles? My sister wants the same.”

Swathi said, “She’s from Chennai. Full posh.”

Arun only smiled weakly. Each comment stung not cruelly, but like threads binding him tighter to this new identity.

A few girls from the next section XI-B - came over. “You’re Pavithra from English medium, right?”

“Yes,” he said automatically.

“You speak really softly. And you walk like a proper convent girl,” one of them giggled. “Can you join our music practice tomorrow? We need someone who looks… elegant.”

Swathi beamed. “Told you! She’s perfect.”

Final Bell, Ride Home:

After the final bell, Pavithra stood waiting with the Scooty.

The teachers greeted her, “Arun, you’re here for your sister?”

Arun mounted the scooty again, still careful to keep his legs together. The ride was slower, but no less humiliating.

They passed several students walking in groups. One of them pointed. “Hey look, that’s the new girl - Pavithra. Looks too decent, no?”

Another girl whispered, “She even smells like rose powder. Maybe rich girl types.”

Arun turned his face away.

Evening Reflection:

Back home, he peeled off the sweaty salwar, the tight bra, and the camisole, revealing red pressure marks on his body.

He stood in front of the mirror, wearing Pavithra’s purple nightie again - the one with lace at the hem. He touched the chain still around his neck and stared at his reflection.

“Even the other girls think I’m just one of them,” he whispered.

Later that evening, Pavithra laid out a rough plan with charts and ID copies on the table.

“’ll go to a local advocate tomorrow, say there’s a clerical mistake. You stay in character. If anyone doubts, it’ll be gone.”

“But this uniform, the ID… the handwriting training…” he muttered.

“Let’s fake it till we fix it,” Pavithra said. “And if we can’t fix it…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Outside, someone from school sent a WhatsApp group link. Arun’s name was already saved as Pavithra S. (XI-A).