Joy Family

Becoming Jerusha - Joy Family

Part 6: "Of Rooms Once Lived, and Lives Once Dreamt"

Morning came quietly.

The kind of morning that doesn’t rush in with sunlight and noise, but rather, slips gently between curtains, casting faint rectangles of silver on soft sheets. There was no alarm. No noisy roommates. No one banging on a bathroom door. Only the low, steady hum of the central AC, and the softest scent of lavender from somewhere in the sheets.

Kathir blinked awake slowly.

For a full minute, he forgot where he was.

Then he turned and saw the pale blue curtain. The bookshelf. The soft stuffed elephant still sitting near the headboard.

Jerusha’s room.

His body tensed slightly - but the tension melted just as quickly. There was something disarming about the air here. Something still and accepting. As though the room remembered, but didn’t accuse.

A gentle knock came.

He sat up.

The door opened slowly and Maria stepped in, carrying a tray with a white cup.

“Good morning, kanna,” she said softly, smiling. “You slept okay?”

Kathir nodded, wiping his face.

She placed the tray down near the bedside. The warm aroma of chocolate and malt drifted up.

“Bournvita. Jeru used to take it every morning. Even after she grew up. Wouldn’t touch coffee, thought this would cheer you up.”

He reached for the cup slowly.

Maria didn’t leave.

Instead, she walked over to the wardrobe and pulled it open.

“I kept her clothes as they were,” she said, her voice a touch breathy, but steady. “Just for now, use anything you need. Towel’s in the lower shelf.”

Kathir stood up, a little unsure. She handed him a towel, neatly folded and smelling of rosewater.

She pointed at the various sections like she was offering a tour of someone sacred.

“Here’s her home wear… these are her kurtis, simple ones… there’s a salwar she wore to our church’s anniversary. That white gown - that was her Holy Communion dress. She was so proud of it… next to it is the maroon one from her last school group photo… she always wanted to keep it ironed. Said she felt like a film heroine in it.”

She gave a little smile at the memory, then cleared her throat.

“Breakfast will be ready in half an hour. You can take your time, kanna. The bathroom’s there.”

She stepped out quietly, shutting the door behind her with gentle fingers.

Kathir stood still for a moment.

Then, towel in hand, he stepped into the bathroom.

The lights came on automatically.

It was not just a bathroom - it was a small spa.

Cream tiled walls, a large mirror that didn’t have a single fingerprint, a sink that gleamed, a bathtub that looked like something from a hotel, and a glass rack full of expensive-looking cosmetics and self-care items - scrubs, lotions, conditioners, face mists, moisturizers, all carefully arranged.

He didn’t touch anything at first.

Then, very slowly, he ran his fingers over the bottle labels - L’Occitane, The Body Shop, Neutrogena - things he had only seen in ads on YouTube before skipping.

He poured warm water into the tub.

For the first time in… he couldn’t remember how long… he took a real bath. Not a rushed bucket pour over a cement floor. But a soak. A steam. The kind of bath where you closed your eyes and let go.

He used her shampoo. Her soap.

Afterward, he toweled off, skin soft and smelling like a memory.

He wore his only decent outfit - a light blue shirt and jeans. The shirt had frayed near the collar. But it was clean. It would have to do.

Downstairs, Stephen Joy sat at the dining table, already dressed in crisp trousers and a half-sleeve shirt. He had a business newspaper open in front of him and was slowly chewing on toast.

He looked up, smiled gently.

“Good morning, thambi.”

Maria was already plating breakfast - idiyappam with coconut milk and sambar, a touch of ghee glistening on top.

She pulled a chair.

“Come, sit. You have to eat well, kanna.”

He sat, embarrassed by how good everything smelled.

They ate. Maria asked questions now and then. Stephen listened. Sometimes, she would pause and say something about Jerusha.

“She used to hate brinjal,” she laughed once. “But she’d still eat it if I made it with enough onion.”

Kathir smiled faintly.

He had never eaten this slow before.

Never with this much… care.

Just as he got up, bag slung over his shoulder, mumbling about college, Maria came rushing from the kitchen.

“Wait!” she called. “You forgot your lunch!”

She packed it in a neat steel carrier, covered in a red checked napkin.

Stephen twirled his car keys.

“I’ll drop you.”

“Sir… I can walk, it’s not---”

“No,” Stephen said, firm but kind. “Let’s go.”

The Volvo XC90 purred quietly as it pulled out of the gates.

Inside, the air was cool and lined with the faint scent of leather and pine.

Stephen drove slowly, calmly.

“You’re in Virugambakkam Arts College, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not a very strict one, no?”

Kathir shrugged. “Mostly theory classes. They don’t mind if we skip… just show up for the exams.”

Stephen nodded thoughtfully.

They passed a red light. Stephen slowed, then spoke.

“You know… we have four properties. Three in Chennai, one in Coimbatore, resort in nilgiris, huge lands in Thanjavur ,Shares in a textiles firm, investments in startups. Mutual funds. Fixed deposits. The Volvo, the Audi… it’s all from years of slow saving.”

Kathir blinked, unsure why this was being shared.

“I never told Jerusha,” Stephen continued, voice lower now. “Never wanted her to think life was easy. I wanted her to grow without being burdened by money talk. She thought we were just average. Saved from her pocket money to buy gifts.”

He chuckled softly - then stopped.

“Now I have all this,” he said, staring at the road ahead. “And she’s… gone. What use is wealth if the person you saved it for never touches it?”

Kathir turned slightly.

Stephen’s hands trembled on the wheel.

“At least now… I get to say it to someone. I get to speak out loud. Maybe God is letting me confess what I held in too long.”

The car stopped in front of the college.

A few students turned to look.

A Volvo in that college was like a swan in a pond full of street dogs.

Kathir stepped out, thanked him quietly. Stephen nodded, eyes soft.

Shravya, standing near the gate, stared at him.

“Who dropped you… Kathir?!” she asked, stunned.

He gave a short, awkward smile.

“It’s a long story.”

She blinked.

“Okay I’m listening.”

They walked toward the old block, Kathir explaining what happened. The misunderstanding. The resemblance. The grief. The food.

Shravya listened, wide-eyed.

When he finished, she placed a hand on his arm.

“It’s… incredible. I’m glad you’re safe. They sound kind. But…”

She hesitated.

“But?” he asked.

She smiled.

“Just… don’t forget who you are, okay? It’s okay to care for them. But remember yourself too.”

Kathir nodded. “Honestly… I only came today because I didn’t want to be in the house. It feels strange. Embarrassing. Like I’m inside someone else’s memory.”

Shravya didn’t answer.

But she squeezed his hand gently before walking ahead.

The classes dragged. He hardly listened. The chalk sounded like wind against glass.

By afternoon, he told the admin he had “headache” and left.

Back at the villa, he rang the bell.

Maria opened the door with a smile that reached her eyes.

“Ayyo, kanna! Tired-a? Come inside, come!”

She took his bag off his shoulder like a mother would.

She led him in. Made him sit. Took out a tray of banana fritters, samosas, and mango juice.

He hadn’t even opened his mouth. She just fed, asked about his day, laughed when he told her one of the teachers still taught from a 2013 textbook.

Evening came gently.

Stephen returned from work holding a small white box.

Maria gasped.

“You bought that?”

“Jeru’s favourite. Swiss roll from Murugan Bakery.”

They cut it. Stephen insisted on feeding him the first bite.

Kathir tried to protest - but the bite was already pressed to his lips.

He ate.

It was good. Too good.

They watched TV together.

An old Vijay movie. Stephen laughed in all the wrong places. Maria kept asking questions about the plot.

Kathir sat there, unsure how he had come to belong in this moment.

That night, he climbed upstairs.

Brushed his teeth with Jerusha’s old mint toothpaste. Folded his college shirt carefully. Sat near the window.

Then he lay down.

Eyes open.

Then closed.

A dream came.

White all around. A place that didn’t exist. Like snow without cold.

He stood alone.

A shape approached.

A silhouette.

Small hands reached forward.

Not a hug.

A handshake.

Gentle. Firm.

As if saying, “We’re in this together now.”

And then, a voice.

Not loud. Not male. Not female.

Just… known.

"Be Joy."

Becoming Jerusha - Joy Family

Part 7: “The Name That Grew Around Him”

The next morning came, not with a burst of light or purpose, but with stillness.

Kathir lay under the soft blue quilt, not moving, eyes half-closed. He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t even tired. He just… didn’t want to go to college.

The idea of returning to that dusty hall, the bored lecturers, the endless whispering behind his back - it all felt too heavy for a day that had begun so light.

When Maria knocked on the door and entered with a gentle, “Good morning, kanna,” he quietly sat up.

“Aunty…” he began, the word slipping out before he realised.

He hesitated.

Maria, placing a steaming tumbler of bournvita on the side table, turned.

“You don’t want to go today?”

He nodded, eyes low.

She walked over and placed a hand on his head, smoothing his hair gently.

“Okay, kanna. Stay home. Company irukkum for me today.”

She remained home that day too - her counselling center was closed for a cleaning break.

For the first time, Kathir followed her through a full day. Not as a guest, but as someone slowly merging with the rhythm of the household.

He helped her slice beans in the kitchen, standing on a mat beside the sink, wearing one of Jerusha’s old aprons.

He wiped the dishes. He passed her the turmeric. He listened when she told stories of Jerusha’s quirks - how she hated onions in her rava dosa, how she always sang while brushing her teeth, how she once spent three days trying to learn “You Raise Me Up” on the keyboard, only to give up after the intro.

By mid-morning, she was setting aside a folder of old school photos. He found himself flipping through it like a detective - learning her handwriting, her school friends, her medals in essay writing.

“She loved debates,” Maria said. “Fought with me once because I called feminism ‘too aggressive’.”

Kathir laughed, genuinely. “Sounds like a fighter.”

“She was. Small, but stubborn.”

They had lunch together. Rice, paruppu, kovakkai poriyal, and a small bowl of payasam.

By the evening, they were sitting in the swing on the patio, watching the golden wash of light through the coconut trees.

Kathir turned.

“Jerusha was going to start 11th, right?”

Maria’s smile dipped, just slightly.

“She was excited. Said she wanted to join a different school , but shift to hostel. Wanted to be independent more.”

“Why did you allow her to?”

Maria took a deep breath. “We thought it’d make her stronger. The world isn’t kind. And Stephen’s job had a lot of travel then. We thought… let her learn independence. But after one year, she wanted to come back.”

Kathir nodded slowly. “She never did.”

Maria didn’t speak. But she reached out, took his hand.

And he didn’t pull away.

The week passed slowly, like a warm stream that reshaped stone without being noticed.

Each day followed a rhythm - waking up to bournvita, small chores, stories from the Joys, quiet bonding, long meals, light teasing from Stephen, and Kathir slowly being pulled inward.

Not forced.

Drawn.

One evening after dinner, they were sitting in the hall, watching a devotional programme on mute when Stephen looked over.

“Kanna…” he began, voice cautious. “Can we ask you something?”

Kathir turned from the TV.

“We… we know you're Kathir. We know you're not her. But… inside this house, just inside… can we call you Jerusha? Or Jeru, or Jerukutty, like we used to? Just for ourselves?”

Kathir felt a sudden chill - then warmth.

It wasn’t fear. Not quite.

He looked at Maria.

Her eyes held only a question.

Not pressure.

“I… okay,” he said softly. “Inside house only.”

“And…” she added carefully. “Can you… can you call us Amma and Appa? If it’s not too strange.”

He hesitated a moment.

Then nodded.

“Okay… Amma… Appa.”

The words felt unnatural for a second, like trying on new shoes - but they didn’t pinch.

They simply felt unused.

And perhaps waiting.

As the days passed, they told him more about their life.

That Stephen had been one of five siblings, but only one cousin remained in touch - Annal, who lived in Australia, determined one they'll all come together one day.

That Maria had been a school teacher, who quit to care for Jerusha full-time.

That Jerusha had once run away for two hours because her parents refused to let her dye her hair pink. They found her sitting in a juice shop, sipping Boost.

They showed him the family tree one evening. Kathir memorised it, not intentionally - but it stuck.

He texted Shravya about it one night.

-Staying here. It’s like a parallel life. They’re good people. But it’s strange. They call me by her name. Not outside. But inside. And I say Amma, Appa. Idk why. But it feels… safe?

She replied:

- As long as you’re not being forced. It’s okay to be needed. But don’t disappear inside it.

He read the message twice.

Didn’t reply.

One day, Maria asked him to accompany her to her counselling centre - she had to drop off some folders and check in on a few things.

They took the Audi, sunlight slicing through the windshield.

Maria looked over while adjusting the rear-view mirror.

“Your hair’s gone wild, kanna,” she said, half-laughing.

Kathir instinctively ran his fingers through it. It was frizzy, dry, and long. He’d let it grow ever since he left home - but never really taken care of it.

“Parlour ku polama?” she asked casually. “There’s one next to the centre. Just a cleanup. For you.”

He hesitated.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

The parlour was quiet and cool, run by a polite woman named Veena, who smiled without staring.

Maria spoke first.

“Hair spa, oil massage, basic cleanup. Maybe facial. Just freshen him up. Jerusha used to love Parlours.”

veena gave a curious glance but nodded.

Kathir was led to a chair. His hair was washed with shampoo that smelt like green apples. A woman gently rubbed oil into his scalp. Steam followed. His skin was cleansed, massaged, a rose-scented facial applied. Fingernails were trimmed, filed. Cuticles pushed gently back.

By the end of it, he stared at the mirror.

He looked… clearer.

Softer.

Realigned.

Maria clapped her hands.

“Jeru would be proud.”

He didn’t know what to say.

That night, back home, Stephen came into his room with a small white box.

“Thambi… you still using that old phone?” he asked.

Kathir blinked.

Stephen handed over a rose gold iPhone 14 pro.

“Her phone. Still working. I… I think she’d want you to have it.”

Kathir opened the box slowly.

The screen lit up with a familiar lock screen photo - Jerusha, Maria, and Stephen, smiling under a Christmas star.

He unlocked it with the passcode they gave him: 2803 (her birthday).

Inside - a whole life.

Chats with friends. Hundreds of photos. Videos of her mimicking teachers. Short notes in her notepad titled “Things to Do Before 20.”

He didn’t open everything.

Just skimmed.

A piece of music.

A random quote: “God sometimes writes straight with crooked lines.”

He lay on the bed, holding the phone to his chest.

Fell asleep.

At 1:14 am, the screen lit up softly.

One video began playing automatically.

Set to music.

A slow montage.

Jerusha as a baby, a toddler, a schoolgirl, a teenager. In temples, churches, beaches, malls.

Her parents behind her always. Cheering. Laughing.

In the final frame, the text appeared slowly, typed letter by letter.

- “The Joy Family – Where God Planted Us.”

- Be Joy.

Becoming Jerusha - Joy Family

Part 8: “Threads That Touch, Threads That Bind”

The morning unfolded like every other now.

Soft sunlight through sky-blue curtains. The slow purring hum of the central AC above. A neatly placed tray by the bedside. A familiar voice.

“Jerusha kutty… Bournvita ready, kanna. Drink before it cools!”

Kathir stirred beneath the floral sheet, blinking slowly. The air was cold again today. He sat up, hair tousled and feather-light. The parlour treatment from days ago had done its work - his once unruly curls now fell in soft waves along the side of his face, silky and gently scented with floral shampoo. His skin, once dull from Chennai’s dust and working late shifts, had taken on a soft sheen - clearer, pinker around the cheeks, his lips less dry, nails still neat from their recent filing.

He pushed the quilt aside, slowly padded to the bathroom with a towel over his shoulder.

The bath was warm and long.

He used Jerusha’s shower gel again - a subtle jasmine and aloe blend - out of habit now. It left his body faintly fragrant, with skin that felt powdered even without touching it. The mirror fogged, but when he wiped it clean, he caught a glimpse of someone that confused him - his collarbones more visible, his cheeks softened, his jaw not as square as it used to be.

Back in the room, steam still rising from his shoulders, he opened his cupboard.

Empty.

The PG clothes he had come with - two shirts, one jean, one worn-out tee - were all in the laundry. They hadn’t returned yet.

His fingers hovered near the empty hangers.

He quickly wrapped the towel tighter and stepped outside, walking towards the stairs.

“Amma!” he called.

Maria’s voice came from the kitchen. “Enna da, Jeru?”

He stepped down a few steps, tugging his towel.

“All my clothes are in the wash. Any of Appa’s I can wear?”

Maria came to the bottom of the staircase with a dish towel in hand, looking up at him thoughtfully.

“Appa’s clothes won’t fit you properly, kanna. Too loose. He’s broad-chested.”

Kathir hesitated.

She seemed to understand immediately.

“If you don’t mind… Jeru’s clothes are there. Clean and soft. Home wear only. Nobody’s forcing you.”

He took a long breath, heart thudding faintly in his chest.

“O… okay. But… just something simple. Find the most manly-looking thing,” he mumbled.

Maria’s eyes sparkled - not with victory, not with glee, but with something closer to hope.

She motioned. “Come, kanna. I’ll show you.”

They entered Jerusha’s old wardrobe together.

Maria crouched gently, pulling open the lowest drawer - the one for her sleepwear.

From inside, she pulled out a navy blue cotton T-shirt, soft with wear, with a faded 'NASA' logo across the front, and a pair of grey knit jogger pants, subtly ribbed at the ankles. The clothes were unmistakably soft, genderless - but also clearly designed for a teenage girl.

“And this,” she said, holding up a folded innerwear. “Just to be clean.”

It was a boyshort - black cotton, seamless, with a gentle stretch and no lace. Still, it looked alien in his eyes.

Maria caught the look.

“She wore these a lot in summer. No elastics digging in. More comfy than churidars,” she said with a smile, holding the fabric. “Washing powder brand same as before, fresh set. Don’t worry.”

Kathir gulped softly.

She handed them to him.

“I’ll keep breakfast ready. Come soon, Jeru kutty.”

He returned to the room slowly, the soft bundle in his hands feeling heavier than steel.

He shut the door and stood for a minute.

Then, towel still around his waist, he laid the clothes on the bed.

The boyshort was the first challenge. He dropped his towel and stepped into it awkwardly, pulling it up with careful fingers. It hugged snugly, shaping around his lean hips and thighs. It had no front pouch like his regular briefs, not that he needed that pouch . It didn't feel bad, just… strange. Like wearing a memory that didn’t belong.

Next came the pants. They were tighter than what he was used to - but very soft. Almost dangerously comfortable. They slid over the boyshort easily, fitting like a second skin around his slim legs.

Last - the T-shirt. Slipping it on, he noticed the fabric clung softly at the shoulders, fell just over the hips, and left a slight floral scent of old detergent and skin cream.

He stood in front of the mirror.

His hair framed his softened face. The shirt made his figure look even slighter. The pants emphasized how small his waist really was. He looked like someone between two selves, not boy, not girl - Just softened, suspended.

And humiliated, somewhere deep in his chest.

But also…

A little safe.

He stepped downstairs slowly.

Stephen was in the hall, sipping coffee.

Maria came out of the kitchen and froze as soon as she saw him.

Her eyes welled up.

“Jeru… kutty…”

Before he could even look away, both of them walked over and hugged him tightly - one from each side, arms pressing him in.

“I’m sorry,” Maria whispered into his shoulder. “We know you’re Kathir. But… this… just brings her near.”

Stephen placed a palm over his head.

They pulled back slowly, composing themselves.

Maria wiped her eyes and smiled.

“Kanna… only if you’re comfortable. We’re not asking you to pretend. But if this is okay… just for home…”

Kathir nodded silently.

The rest of the day passed gently.

They didn’t push. They didn’t stare.

Maria became more tender, closer than ever before. She made small jokes. Asked him to help her fold clothes. Told him stories about Jerusha’s obsession with bookmarks and her deep hatred for green capsicum.

They even made rasam together.

“She used to mix too much pepper,” Maria said. “Appa would sneeze after every bite.”

Kathir giggled despite himself.

At lunch, Stephen casually said, “You remind me more of her now, not just in face… but in spirit.”

That evening, they watched TV together - Maria resting her head lightly against his shoulder.

He didn’t move.

The next morning, the laundry still hadn’t arrived.

He bathed again - used the same floral shampoo, the same foot scrub - and this time, it was even colder in the house.

He stepped out shivering.

“Amma,” he called, arms wrapped around himself, “very cold today…”

Maria walked over, eyes full of quick concern.

“I should have said - wear a camisole, kanna! Same like a vest. Jeru used to wear one for early mornings.”

She opened the wardrobe again, pulled out a Jockey stretch camisole - light cream with tiny sky-blue bows near the straps and a little rosette on the front neckline. The material was buttery soft, adjustable at the shoulder.

Kathir took it wordlessly and returned to his room.

He slid the camisole over his head and adjusted the straps as best as he could. It hugged gently over his chest and underarms, tucking him in with a strange, maternal snugness. He layered the T-shirt and pants over it again.

Downstairs, Stephen and Maria smiled - but this time, didn’t cry.

They simply watched him walk in and served him breakfast like he had always belonged here.

That evening, after a gentle day of reading and helping around the kitchen, Maria opened a box from her cupboard drawer.

Inside was a delicate platinum chain - with a small natural diamond cross glinting at its center.

She placed it gently in his palm.

“This was Jeru’s… last gift from us. We saved months for the time. She only wore it to church or festivals. Now…”

She stopped, choking slightly.

“If you don’t mind… you can wear it, kanna.”

Kathir stared at the chain. It sparkled softly, heavy for its size.

“Too expensive, Amma…”

“But it’s yours, Jeru. You’re part of us now.”

He blinked rapidly.

Then, with shaking hands, clasped it around his neck.

The cold of the platinum settled over his warm skin.

They took a photo that evening.

The first family photo since her death.

Jerusha’s cotton tee.

Her diamond cross.

Her name in their mouths.

And Kathir, standing between two people who once lost a daughter, and now held a silhouette of her in new skin.

That night, as he went to the bathroom before bed, he pulled down his pants and sat.

The boyshort stretched softly over his thighs.

He looked down, stared blankly at the material for a long while.

He wasn’t repulsed.

But he wasn’t proud either.

He just… existed inside it.

He looked again.

On the waistband’s inner lining, near the seam, was a faint stitched tag.

Tiny, in cursive thread.

- Property of Joy

He closed his eyes.

Somehow, it didn’t feel like the tag was on the cloth.

It felt like it was somewhere inside him now.

Becoming Jerusha - Joy Family

Part 9: “Her Shadow, My Signature”

The days slipped by without resistance, like pages of a book being turned by wind.

It was now mid-May, the Chennai sun beginning to cast longer, lazier shadows, and the city air smelled faintly of mangoes and dust. Kathir no longer marked time by college days -he had stopped going altogether, except for the occasional examination. That building felt too distant now, like an old shirt kept folded in the bottom drawer - outgrown, unwanted.

His old T-shirts, jeans, and shirts from the PG had long vanished. Some, lost to time and laundry. The rest, quietly set aside, never spoken of again.

In their place: a growing comfort with Jerusha’s homewear - soft tees, cotton joggers, camisoles that hugged lightly, discreetly, and underpants that no longer felt like foreign objects but like part of his new skin.

The platinum cross on his chest had not left his neck since the day it was gifted.

And in the silence of each day, the Joy family became closer - not in loud declarations, but in quiet gestures. Maria brushing lint off his shoulder without asking. Stephen placing a fresh mango slice on his plate with a smile and calling him kutty. And Kathir - still unsure who he was - but sure that here, he was safe.

One particular afternoon, Kathir found himself alone in the house for the first time in weeks.

Maria had a counselling session at the center.

Stephen had a client meeting in Adyar.

“Kanna,” she’d said, lacing up her sandals at the door. “Lock the front if you go out. There’s pasta in the fridge, just reheat. And don’t open for anyone except post.”

He had nodded, one hand clutching a tumbler of chilled rose milk.

And then… they were gone.

For the first time in weeks, stillness wrapped the entire villa.

The central air whispered gently overhead. The curtains swayed slightly in the AC draft. Outside, a koel called twice, and somewhere distant, a pressure cooker whistled.

He wandered aimlessly for a few minutes. Tried switching on the TV, flipped through channels, and turned it off again. Picked up Jerusha’s phone, checked WhatsApp - no new messages.

Then… a strange desire tugged at him.

How big is this house really?

He set off like a curious child.

Today, he wore one of Jerusha’s more colorful outfits - a black cotton T-shirt with silver star prints across the shoulders, paired with baby pink cotton pants that gathered softly at the ankle. Underneath, he wore one of the pink camisoles with a tiny satin bow stitched into the neckline, and a plain black boyshort - now familiar, now fitted. His necklace shimmered softly against the collarbone.

He looked like her, in fragments.

But felt… strangely invisible in this softness. Exposed, but undeniably safe inside these walls.

He began on the ground floor, counting each room aloud to himself.

“Living hall… dining… kitchen… prayer… office room…”

He opened each door and walked in. Stephen’s office was filled with rows of dusty files and shelves of law books, all hard-bound and intimidating. The prayer room was smaller, gentle-smelling of jasmine and camphor. He pressed his palms briefly together in silence.

The first guest room had a full-size bed, untouched and stiff. The second was darker, probably used for storage. He opened cupboards, peeked at extra bed linens, Christmas decorations, unused wedding return gifts.

Then, the master bedroom.

He paused outside the door, heart gently tapping.

But curiosity nudged harder.

Maria and Stephen’s room smelled of sandalwood and powder. The bed was large and carefully made. On the dresser sat Maria’s collection of bangles and bottles of rose perfume. One half-used stick of Lakme kajal rolled near the mirror edge.

Kathir gently picked up a photograph of them - Jerusha in the middle, smiling wide, hair braided with red ribbon. Maria wore a green saree. Stephen in a blazer.

He looked at the girl in the middle.

Looked back at the mirror.

And lowered the photo.

The stairs creaked slightly under his steps as he climbed to the terrace.

The air was warmer here, but breezy. He walked to the back end where, oddly, a cleared rectangular patch of land waited, covered in pale gravel.

He remembered Stephen once mentioning they had plans for a swimming pool here. But not anymore.

He stood there for a few minutes, wind curling through his hair, shirt brushing against his waist.

Back inside, he returned to Jerusha’s room.

He sat cross-legged on the bed and pulled open the lower cupboard drawer.

Inside: Her old diary, wrapped in a cloth pouch.

He opened the first page.

“Jerusha Anne Joy. Sacred Heart School. Std 9.”

The first few pages were about her School routines - who snored in class, which teacher was strict, which crush she had on the senior named Arun.

Later pages were deeper.

“Sometimes I want to scream into my pillow just to hear myself be real.”

“I don’t know what God wants. But I think He’s still listening.”

Kathir closed the book, throat dry.

He moved to the dressing table.

Inside the drawer: a set of unused earrings, a few lip balms, packets of bobby pins, and a broken string of artificial pearls.

The top held an old compact mirror, still with some pink powder.

He looked at himself again.

The camisole strap had peeked out from the T-shirt.

He tucked it back.

Sighed.

And suddenly -

Ding-dong.

He froze.

The doorbell.

His heart flipped.

He turned sharply.

Then relaxed slightly - there was a screen next to Living room showing door camera footage.

A postman.

Carrying a thin brown parcel.

He stood there looking impatient, pressing the bell again.

Kathir swallowed.

He looked down at himself.

The outfit clung slightly at the waist. The pink pants. The necklace. The faint sheen from the afternoon lotion Maria made him apply.

“I’m not Jerusha…” he whispered to himself.

But his feet moved anyway.

He walked to the intercom speaker and pressed it.

“Hello?” he asked, voice light.

The postman squinted. “Ma’am, courier from Flipkart. Please collect.”

Kathir’s mouth went dry.

“I… coming.”

He opened the gate.

The sunlight outside was strong. Too strong.

The postman didn’t blink twice. Just extended the parcel.

“Name?”

He looked at the form.

“Jerusha Anne Joy?”

Kathir looked down.

He took the pen from the clipboard and signed.

Not Kathir.

But Jerusha A. Joy.

Exactly like in the diary.

Exactly like on the school documents.

He had memorized it.

It came out in one smooth stroke.

“Thank you, ma’am,” the postman said politely, stepping back.

Kathir stood in the open door for a few more seconds.

Hair in his eyes.

Camisole strap still slightly peeking.

Parcel in one hand.

Joy stitched into his waistband.

And Joy now written in his own handwriting.

He closed the door slowly.

Something had changed.

Not loudly.

But irreversibly.

Becoming Jerusha - Joy Family

Part 10: “In Her Place, In Her Shade”

The summer had grown wild and angry.

By mid-May, Chennai was boiling. The evening light came like fire on the windows, bouncing off tar roads and metal gates. Even the birds seemed too tired to chirp. Kathir sat on the front porch with Maria, both of them fanning themselves lazily.

He was wearing one of Jerusha’s older outfits - a black tee and beige cotton pants, camisole underneath sticking lightly to his damp chest. Sweat trickled down his temples. His thighs itched.

Maria, in her soft lavender nighty, sat beside him with a steel tumbler of buttermilk, wiping her upper lip.

Kathir groaned softly, tugging his tee away from his skin.
“Amma… these are so bulky in this heat. Everything’s sticking.”

Maria looked at him with gentle amusement.
“Then wear what’s made for this weather, kutty.”

He looked at her, puzzled.

She smiled knowingly.
“Jeru’s nighties are cotton. Feather-light. She always wore them when sun got like this. Slip inside, bathe, and I’ll give you a good one.”

He hesitated.

“Won’t it… be too much?”

She chuckled.

“Kanna, you wear camisoles, tee-pants, everything already. This will be cooler. You’re at home, no? Who’s watching?”

Her voice was too kind to resist.

He gave a small nod.
“Okay. But… only if it's really simple.”

Back in the bath, the water was lukewarm, then cold.

He let it pour over him, soothing the sweat-slick skin. His body, now hairless in most parts thanks to Maria’s casual suggestion weeks ago, felt light and bare under the shower. He washed with Jerusha’s body gel - hibiscus and mint - and patted dry slowly with her soft towel.

When he stepped out in towel, Maria was already waiting, standing outside his room.

She handed him a folded set.

“Here. Clean one. Her favourite. With a slip and panty, kanna. More comfy.”

He blinked.

She pointed.
“The slip is that thin white one. Wear under the nighty - it doesn’t cling. And this…” she handed a fresh cotton panty, soft lavender with no lace, just a little satin bow on the waistband. “This completes it.”

He nodded slowly. Took the items.

“Oh - and this.” She gave him a lip balm - light pink with a mild floral print. “Your lips are cracking in the heat. This is slightly tinted, okay? Not much colour.”

He took it too, and closed the door behind him.

He stood in front of the mirror, the bundle on the bed.

The panty was first - soft, elasticated, snug. No resistance. No awkwardness now. Just fitted.

Then the slip - a sheer white inner dress with tiny flower embroidery near the neckline. Thin straps. He slid it over his head. It whispered down his body, cool and breathable.

Then finally the nighty - a long cotton gown, soft turquoise with a delicate floral print. It reached just above his ankles and floated as he moved. The neckline had scalloped edges and a little drawstring bow. He adjusted it carefully.

Then, hesitantly, he unscrewed the lip balm, gently swiped it over his dry lips. They tingled slightly. He looked in the mirror.

A soft glisten on his mouth.
His moles, clearer without distraction.
His collarbone, elegant.
The nighty swayed.

He looked like…

He looked like Jerusha, from the photo frame in the hallway.

He walked downstairs slowly.

Maria was waiting near the dining table.

She looked up.

Her hands flew to her mouth, eyes suddenly watery.

Stephen came out from the other room and stopped.

“My baby girl…” he whispered.

Before Kathir could speak, they both walked over and hugged him softly, not crying, not heavy - just grateful.

He didn’t resist.

The air was heavy, but not from heat now.

Dinner was simple: lemon rice, potato curry, curd.

But the warmth on their faces, the pride, made it taste richer.

After dinner, Maria got up, went to a cupboard, and returned with a small velvet box.

“Only if you want, kutty. No force.”

Inside: a pair of slender gold anklets. Shimmering. Subtle.

“Jeru always wore these when she was home. It suits your feet too.”

Kathir’s eyes widened.

Stephen smiled warmly.
“May I?”

Kathir nodded faintly, unsure why.

Stephen bent down, lifted Kathir’s foot onto his lap, and began to gently clasp the anklet around his ankle.

The sound of tiny bells echoed.

The other ankle followed.

When he stepped down, the anklets chimed lightly - not loud, but enough to be heard.

Maria clapped softly.
“Azhagu kutty. So pretty.”

Kathir blushed hard.

But… didn’t take them off.

Later that night, in his room, he texted his friend.

- “I think… I finally have a family. For the first time.”

She replied after a minute.

- “Happy for you. But just be careful, okay? Not everyone who hugs you wants your truth. Stay grounded.”

He read the message twice. Then tucked the phone under his pillow.

The anklets jingled gently as he climbed into bed.

He pulled the blanket up.

The nighty slip stuck to his thighs, and the satin bow on the panty pressed softly at his lower belly.

He yawned.

But just as he turned off the side lamp, a soft thud.

The cupboard door had been ajar.

A dress had fallen out.

He leaned over, picked it up.

Held it in his hands.

Soft. Lavender. Mid-length. Full sleeves.

A faint stitched tag on the neck.

"J. A. Joy"

He held it for a moment.

Pressed it gently against his face.

Then placed it on the side chair.

And turned to sleep.