Joy Family

Becoming Jerusha - Joy Family

Part 11: “The Sabbath of Becoming”

It was a Saturday night, thick with the humid heat of a restless Chennai summer. The house was slow and quiet, the air swirling with the smell of pressure-cooked rice and fried brinjal. Kathir sat cross-legged on the dining chair, dressed in one of Jerusha’s oldest nighties - faded blue with tiny stars. A soft camisole hugged his chest beneath it, and the usual platinum cross glittered softly against his collarbone.

Maria was serving dinner - vegetable pulao, boiled egg, raita. Stephen was already digging in, sleeves rolled up, face relaxed for the first time that week.

And somewhere between bites and talk of a possible rain on Monday, Maria said it, like a passing cloud:

“We’ll read the Bible and pray together tomorrow, na? Sunday.”

Stephen nodded, chewing.

Kathir looked up. “You do that every week?”

Maria smiled gently. “Yes, kanna. It was always a tradition. Jeru never missed a Sunday. She’d read aloud from Psalms. Her voice… such clarity.” Her voice faltered for a second. “Last year’s Palm Sunday was the last time…”

Kathir looked at both of them.

Stephen had lowered his spoon. Maria had turned her face slightly.

The table had fallen silent.

Something moved in Kathir’s chest.

A tightness. Not quite guilt. Not quite love. Something strange.

He placed his spoon down, quietly.

And said..

“I’ll do it. Tomorrow. I’ll… pray. I want to learn.”

Both of them looked up instantly.

“I know I’m not religious nor a Christian,” Kathir said, quickly, “I was never. But… if she never missed it… if she used to sit there, in the prayer room and read…” He paused. “Then I want to do it. "I want to be Jerusha". For tomorrow. Just… one day - completely.”

He said the last part quickly, like a wound he wanted to show and hide at once.

Maria blinked fast, as if tears had jumped into her eyes without warning.

Stephen leaned forward slowly, voice rough. “Kathir, you don’t have to do this to please us, da.”

“I know,” Kathir whispered. “But I want to. I don’t know why. But I want to.”

That night, Maria didn’t sleep early.

He heard her in Jerusha’s room - opening drawers, rustling hangers, clicking boxes open. Once, he peeked from his door and saw her with a dozen outfit pieces spread on the bed. Her eyes were bright. Lively. Alive in a way he hadn’t seen before.

When he asked, she just smiled.
“Surprise for tomorrow, kutty. Go sleep. Our Jeru will be beautiful.”

The next morning, Maria knocked on his door before sunrise.

“Jerukutty,” she called softly. “Bath ready. Come, kanna.”

The water was already drawn - scented with a few drops of rose and sandal oil. A fresh towel, one of Jerusha’s, was laid across the rod. Expensive soap, body mist, hair serum - all already arranged.

He undressed slowly. Stepped into the water.

As the water kissed his skin, Kathir closed his eyes.

This wasn’t a bath anymore.

It was a… transformation.

When he returned to the room, hair still dripping, Maria was already waiting.

On the bed was the chosen outfit - a blush pink floor-length gown, delicate net sleeves, embroidered with golden vines along the chest and shoulders. It shimmered faintly, rich yet angelic.

Beside it, carefully folded:

A matching pink bra and panty set, clean and new.

A pale underskirt slip.

A pair of sheer stockings.

A box with tiny diamond studs -“Her first ever earring,” Maria whispered.

His usual platinum cross necklace.

A delicate gold chain with a small engraved ‘J’.

A bracelet, gold watch, and anklets -all of Jerusha’s.

Kathir looked at the ensemble.

He stood still.

Maria stepped closer, placed her palm on his cheek.

“Not forcing, kanna. We’ll love you anyway.”

He nodded.

His voice was barely audible.

“I said I would. I… meant it.”

He started with the undergarments.

The panty first - silky, high-waist, holding him snug. Still awkward. Still strange. Still not him. Or maybe… becoming him.

Then the bra - soft-cupped, empty, but Maria offered small cotton inserts, which he placed silently, one in each. Not perfect - but enough to fill the gown gracefully.

Then the slip, down over his head. It fell against his skin like water. Cool. Whisper-soft.

He turned to the mirror.

Red lips. Moles visible. Hair longer now, gently parted and puffed, still shining from that parlour visit.

He reached for the lip balm. Maria stopped him.

“Today, Jeru needs real colour,” she said, and dabbed a soft rose tint on his lips. Some base to cover his tan. Light pink on his cheeks.

He barely recognized himself.

Then the gown came last.

It rustled as it fell over his head, Maria zipping it up at the back, adjusting the sleeves, pulling the shoulders just right.

He wore the bracelet. The watch.

She carefully placed the studs into his earlobes - tight enough to pinch. Then fastened both necklaces.

Finally...the anklets. Again.

She smiled.

“You look like the photo on my wall.”

They walked together to the prayer room.

Stephen was already inside.

He looked up.

And covered his face with his hands.

He began to cry.

Maria sniffled too, her fingers trembling as she lit the lamp.

Kathir sat on the mat, eyes cast downward.

He felt foreign, like wearing someone else’s life.

But he didn’t speak.

They read Psalm 23.

Kathir stuttered through the words.

They helped him. Corrected him softly. Encouraged him.

By the time he reached “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life…” his voice had steadied.

And by the end of the final prayer…

He was crying too.

He didn’t know why.

Maybe grief.

Maybe guilt.

Maybe the unbearable weight of being loved as someone else.

After the prayer, they sat on the floor, sipping filter coffee.

Maria leaned her head on his shoulder.
Stephen placed his hand gently on Kathir’s.

A quiet peace sat between them.

And then, as the sun rose higher, they moved to the drawing room.

Stephen opened the camera on his phone.

“One photo,” he whispered. “Just one.”

They sat together on the couch - Maria on one side, Stephen on the other.

Kathir in the center.

Gown flowing across his legs. Hair falling to one side. Cross gleaming.

Click.

The photo was saved as:

FamilyJoyNew_01.jpg

Becoming Jerusha - Joy Family

Part 12: “The First of June, the Second Life”

The heat of late May clung like plastic to the skin.

Even the nights were heavy, clotted with warm wind and restless silence. Ceiling fans spun without mercy, and the AC groaned in the bigger rooms. But inside Kathir’s chest, something else had begun to stir.

It started quietly.

With a date.

June 1.

He had seen it on the calendar in the kitchen. A small hand-drawn flower circled around it, faded slightly.

He knew what it was.

Jerusha’s death anniversary.

The girl whose clothes he wore, whose room he now called his, whose name rang out around the house in soft affectionate tones - her absence had an anniversary.

And this year, it would mark exactly one year.

A full orbit of grief.

Now it was May 25. A Saturday.

One week remained.

Kathir sat on his bed, wearing a tee and pants, as usual - but these days, even those weren’t truly his. They were Jerusha’s simpler home sets. The camisole underneath was always present. The platinum cross rested cold against his chest, even in the heat.

He stared at the wall, thumb moving slowly across his phone screen. His fingers hovered. Then typed.

- “I’m thinking… I might become her. For that day. For June 1. Go to church. In full. I mean really full Jerusha. I want to do it for them. Amma and Appa will be shattered. They deserve something.”

A pause.

The reply came from his only close friend.

- “If it's only for one day and you want to do it… then okay. But don’t lose yourself, Kathir. Don’t let grief twist you. Be careful da.”

He didn’t reply.

He just stared at the message.

Something was building inside him. A strange mixture of love, guilt, shame, fear, and something more terrifying - longing. Longing to matter. Longing to be cherished the way Jerusha was. Longing for his existence to bring peace to someone, even if it meant surrendering his name.

That night, during dinner, it happened.

It was just past 9 PM.

He was wearing a nighty again, a pale one with rose prints. His camisole strap had slipped a little. He didn’t notice. He sat beside Maria, who was placing rasam rice onto his plate with a loving hand. Stephen was laughing at some old memory of college.

Kathir listened quietly.

Then… without fully understanding why, he stood up suddenly.

The chair made a screech.

Both parents looked at him.

“I want to go to church on June 1,” he said, chest rising and falling, eyes not meeting theirs.

“As… as Jerusha.”

Silence.

Maria dropped the spoon.

Stephen froze with a mouthful half-lifted.

“You don’t have to,” she whispered immediately. “Please kanna, don’t feel pressure...”

“I want to,” he interrupted softly. “For one day. I want to become her. Fully. I want to be her… for you both.”

His voice cracked on the last two words.

Maria covered her mouth.

Stephen blinked, unsure whether he had imagined it.

“I want to go… to church. As Jerusha. Like she would’ve. Wearing what she would’ve. Smiling. Walking. Blessing the day. Even if it’s only once. Even if it’s… the only time.”

He was shaking.

They both stood now.

“Kanna…” Maria’s voice trembled.

“I mean it,” he said, more firmly. “No halfway. No just-there. I want to look exactly like her. Act exactly like her. Call me Jerusha that day. Do what you want. Fix me however. I just… want to be her.”

And before they could say anything-

He ran to his room.

Fled like a child caught in the middle of a confession.

Shame spread through his chest like fire.

Inside the room, heart pounding, he jumped onto his bed and yanked the blanket over his head - even in the heat. Face flushed. Anklets still softly chiming.

His legs shook.

His eyes burned.

But he wasn’t crying.

Not yet.

He turned on Jerusha’s phone.

Opened the gallery.

Looked at her photo - smiling at some beach, hair flying, a soft mole on her cheek, a freckle under her left ear. A little cross chain around her neck. That very same chain.

He touched the screen.

“Sorry, Joy…” he whispered. “I’m not worthy. But I promise I’ll try. Just for one day… I’ll be you.”

And then he placed the phone down.

Closed his eyes.

Let the shame melt into exhaustion.

In the living room, Maria and Stephen stood frozen.

“She said he wants to do it,” Stephen whispered, still in shock.

Maria smiled slowly, though tears had started.

“He said he wants to be our Jeru. For one day. Our baby is coming home again. I’ll do it. I’ll prepare her.”

She got up at once, excitement rising like a tide.

Opened her old contact list.

Called an old friend from the best salon - Shalini Aunty, a professional beautician.

“I have a very special child,” she said into the phone. “She wants to become our daughter. Just for one day. I need everything. Full service. Custom.”

Kathir didn’t hear any of it.

He had already turned away from the world, face pressed into a pillow that still smelled faintly of lavender shampoo and an old schoolgirl.

And so began the longest week of his life.

A week that would build the new Jerusha.

A week of soft alterations, hidden fittings, hushed laughter, prayers whispered at night, and memories laid out like clothing to try on.

Becoming Jerusha - Joy Family

Part 13: “The Skin of Her Name”

The week began quietly, but the air inside Joy Villa was anything but.

It was Sunday night, May 25th, when Kathir had offered himself - with shame but certainty - to become Jerusha, just for one day. But the house received his offer like a miracle. Like a prayer long unanswered.

And from that moment, the house stopped being calm.

Monday – The Arrival of the Beautician

She came in a soft pink sari, her hair twisted into a bun that smelled faintly of salon talc and jasmine oil.

“Call me Shalini Aunty,” she smiled, placing down her bags and brushes.

Kathir was in the living room, in a regular tee and joggers, ankles shyly pressed together, hair brushed, but mind trembling. He didn’t meet her eyes.

Maria explained gently in Tamil, whispering in Shalini’s ear - pointing at Kathir’s face, neck, arms.

“He’s my daughter now. Just for this Sunday. I want her to glow. I want her to be Joy again.”

Shalini turned to him and smiled softly.
“Then we begin, kutty.”

That day, she worked only on his face and arms. Deep cleansing. Mild bleaching. Eyebrow shaping. She threaded them lightly - just slightly arched.

Kathir winced.

She patted his cheek gently. “Jeru has soft skin. Let’s show it to the world.”

That night, his skin stung slightly. But when he looked into the mirror, something had shifted.

Even in a vest and boxers, the face staring back was no longer his.

Tuesday – The Ladies from the Clinic

They came late morning, in crisp white tunics. Two women, older, stern but smiling. Maria had booked them days ago.

They stood Kathir in the guest room. Curtains drawn. Lights bright. A large mirror before him.

He was asked to undress completely.

It was humiliating. Even after all the things he had worn before.

But he obeyed.

Not for himself.

For them.

The ladies used soft gloved hands to measure everything: chest, lower torso, pelvic bone, inner thighs, even groin structure. They noted measurements silently.

One woman spoke gently.
“We’ll build a shape that’s safe, sealed, and natural. External, non-surgical. Female urethra included. It’ll blend.”

Kathir swallowed hard. “Blend?”

“Yes. With your real skin. No edge. No gap. Not removable without us.”

He nodded, barely.

They told him they’d return by Saturday.

That night, Kathir stayed in Jerusha’s room longer than usual. Touched her books. Opened her old exam pad.

And wrote, in soft blue ink:

- “If I disappear that day, I hope what remains brings joy.”

Wednesday – Beauty Flood

Shalini returned. This time for the full body.

Exfoliation. Waxing. Skin polish. Elbow bleach. Toe buffing. Hair softening masks.

Maria helped with the hair treatments - two rounds of shampoo, scalp massage, and dry blow.

Shalini tsk-tsked at the back of his neck.
“Jeru must keep this soft,” she said, trimming the hair ends delicately.

By the end of the day, Kathir’s entire body was smooth. Soft. Scented faintly of rose and almond.

He wore a pastel pink slip that night.

When he walked, the anklets jingled.

He didn’t resist.

Thursday – The Shopping Storm

Maria went alone that day.

Came back with 11 bags.

All sealed.

She refused to show him.

“It’s a surprise, kutty. Only Sunday morning, okay?”

Kathir nodded.

Stephen, meanwhile, bought desserts - banana halwa, milk sweets, carrot pudding, and Jerusha’s favourite: butterscotch custard with cashews.

He grinned like a child.
“She loved this. My daughter… she’ll eat it again.”

Kathir looked away, throat tight.

Friday – The Disappearance of Kathir

When Kathir looked at himself in the mirror that day, he searched for signs.

Adam’s apple? Very Faint.

Facial hair? Gone.

Arm lines? Softer.

Neck? Narrow. Smooth. Feminine.

Jerusha’s nighty now fit without irony.

His voice had become softer, naturally - after weeks of trying not to shout.

He sat with Maria, studying church hymns, Bible verses, and posture drills.

When to bow.

When to cross the arms.

When to close the eyes.

She wiped her eyes halfway through.

“You’re so much like her, da. I don’t know whether to thank God or cry.”

He placed his hand over hers.

No words.

Saturday – The Day Jerusha Returned

They arrived mid-morning.

Two cars.

One carried a slim black suitcase. The other, two quiet technicians - one woman, one man.

They asked Kathir to undress again.

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

They applied something cool on his chest. Some sort of bonding agent. He lay down on the sheet.

They opened the suitcase.

Inside: two small silicone breast forms, barely larger than his hand. Soft. Warmed to body temperature.

The woman placed one gently against his left chest, pressed for one minute. Then the right.

They smoothed it in circles.

Sealed the edges.

Then powdered the skin.

He sat up.

They looked perfect. Jerusha-sized. Subtle, not vulgar. Real.

Then came the second piece.

He lay back again.

They carefully covered his groin in a soft, numbing gel. Then lifted a sculpted piece - a delicate, realistic female pubic form, faintly pink, contoured, with a female urination structure.

Kathir’s face burned.

But he didn’t stop them.

He felt it pressed, sealed, smoothed.

The male parts - gone, folded underneath.

He sat up again.

His thighs met differently.

His walk shifted.

There was nothing of Kathir left in the mirror now.

Only a 17-year-old girl with light curves, glowing skin, and soft chest rising and falling.

The technician gave a nod.
“Ms. Joy. You're complete. We’ll come next week to remove them.”

They left without fanfare.

Maria walked in a minute later.

Stopped.

Her hand went to her mouth.

She stepped forward slowly.

Stephen followed. He gasped softly.

It was her.

Jerusha.

Hair brushed, lips tinted.

Body clean.

Shape perfect.

A girl ready for church, for blessings, for rebirth.

Kathir stood silently, arms folded.

He didn’t know whether to cry or collapse.

But he didn’t speak.

Just waited.

Maria stepped forward, and held his hand.

“You’ve come home, Jerukutty.”

Stephen placed his palm on his head.

They didn’t force a single word.

Only silence.

And joy.

As Kathir sat in front of the mirror that night, the soft hum of the fan above, he touched his own arm, then his stomach, then his chest.

It was him, but not him.

The touch was real.

The breasts… soft, warm, part of him.

He stood up, walked to the wardrobe, and pulled open the Sunday outfit reveal.

What he saw made his knees buckle.

Becoming Jerusha - Joy Family

Part 14: “The Daughter Who Returned on a Sunday”

June 1.

The calendar had warned him.

But nothing could have truly prepared Kathir for the way the morning would arrive - silent, still, reverent.

The soft whirr of the central AC sent a light chill through the room. Thin gauze curtains lifted slightly with the air, letting in shafts of pale gold sunlight.

Kathir sat up in bed slowly. He was no longer startled by the feel of the soft fabric against his smooth skin, or the way the camisole gently cradled the weight on his chest. His body had been reshaped, remade - not temporarily, not with illusions - but through prosthetics that moved with him, breathed with him, blended with him.

He didn’t feel male.

And what frightened him more was that he didn’t feel disconnected anymore either.

He rose. The anklets around his legs gave their faint chik... chik in the silence.

In the bathroom, he lowered the lace boyshorts and sat. The unfamiliar posture still stung - the act of urinating now required a position, a ritual, that stripped him of whatever scraps of his old self remained.

And yet, he did it quietly.

Because today was not for him.

Today was for them.

For Maria. For Stephen.

For Jerusha.

The Gown

Maria knocked gently just as he emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, the anklets soft underfoot.

“Jeru kutty... Happy morning. Ready?” she smiled. Her voice sounded too excited to hide anything.

On the bed, carefully laid out, was the outfit.

Kathir’s breath caught.

It was a Lilac Sequins Embroidered Net Indowestern Gown - far more elegant than anything he had imagined.

The bodice was a garden of silver sequins and thread vines, climbing upward into the softest lilac mesh. Its neckline curved gently, framed by twin spaghetti straps, one of which blossomed into a cluster of tulle flowers and a soft, sheer shoulder drape that flowed like a veil of mist.

The skirt fanned out with layers of lilac tulle, embroidered with tiny blossoms scattered near the hem - a quiet snowfall of silver on mauve. The light hit it and shimmered in places. It looked like it belonged in a memory more than on a hanger.

Beside it, Maria had arranged everything else:

A new lavender lace panty

A lavender push-up camisole with underwires for extra lift

A thin net petticoat for volume

Transparent beige stockings

A pair of soft beige 2-inch heels

Platinum cross chain necklace

Silver drop earrings

A tiny velvet box with a pale pink bindi

Light floral deodorant spray, lip tint, and compact

Maria whispered, “Let me help you, kutty. You’ll be her. Not like her. Her.”

He nodded.

The Dressing

He started with the innerwear. Maria stepped out respectfully.

Pulling up the lace panty over the new prosthetic was slow, strange, and humiliating. The snug fabric nestled exactly where it needed to - there was no trace of Kathir. Only smooth, flat girlhood.

The push-up camisole was harder. He stepped into it, pulled it over his hips, and fastened the clips behind. The soft weight on his chest was gently lifted and shaped. The mirror reflected something unrecognizable - small, rounded, perfectly girlish curves.

He sat on the edge of the bed, breath shallow.

Maria returned and began her work like it was sacred.

Stockings, then petticoat. The gown followed - she guided it over his head with motherly care, zipping it at the back with soft encouragement. The tulle shoulders rested on his arms like a whisper. The floral net sleeve from one side fell gently behind.

Maria dabbed soft peach blush on his cheeks, combed his lashes with a tiny wand, and painted his lips with a faint rose-pink balm.

His hair, already conditioned, was brushed to a soft feathered frame. A tiny bindi was pressed between his brows.

Then the necklace.

He closed his eyes as the cold platinum settled near his collarbone.

When he finally stood before the mirror…

He froze.

No boy stared back.

Only Jerusha Anne Joy.

The Car

Stephen waited near the stairs in a soft maroon kurta and off-white veshti. His eyes widened when she descended. But he didn’t cry.

He simply held out his hand.

“Shall we, kutty?” he asked gently.

She placed her hand in his.

They walked to the Volvo XC90, the morning light catching the sequins, her heels making the softest clicks. The anklets chimed now and then.

Maria joined them in a soft lavender saree, holding Jerusha’s clutch purse.

They sat in the backseat, Jerusha between them. Her hands were held the entire ride.

No one spoke much.

Stephen whispered once, “One year. Exactly one year.”

Maria nodded.

No tears. Only a kind of waiting.

The Church

The whitewashed dome of St. Michael’s rose like a lighthouse.

The bells began ringing.

People were already gathering - dressed for Sunday mass.

The guards opened the gate immediately, bowing.

“Sir, ma’am… welcome. It’s been long.”

Maria smiled. “Yes. We brought our daughter this time.”

Jerusha looked down. Her chest rose gently with her breath. The cross gleamed.

Inside, it smelled of wax and lavender incense. Candles glowed on both sides. The choir was just starting to hum.

They took their usual pew.

Some people turned.

“Ayyo, she looks just like you, ma’am,” someone whispered behind.

“Beautiful girl… you must be proud.”

Maria smiled softly.

Jerusha said nothing.

She held their hands.

When the Father began his sermon, her eyes welled without reason. Her breath caught when he said:
“On this day, we remember that from death can come rebirth. Not always in flesh, but in meaning. In how we live.”

Stephen didn’t blink. He held Jerusha’s hand tighter.

Maria’s tears were silent. But her smile stayed.

The mass ended.

After the Prayers

People gathered near the statue outside.

Maria and Stephen proudly introduced her to two elderly couples, a few neighbours.

“This is our daughter,” Stephen said calmly.

No one knew.

No one questioned.

Just polite admiration, compliments, prayers.

“You’ve grown so tall.”

“What a calm, soft face she has.”

Jerusha smiled faintly.

Her voice, when used, was soft, sparse.

“Thank you aunty.”

“Yes uncle.”

They took photos in front of the cathedral steps.

Stephen asked someone to click.

The three stood - father, mother, daughter.

Her gown shimmered, catching the morning sun.

The tulle sleeve fluttered in the breeze.

No sadness.

Only joy.

Becoming Jerusha - Joy Family

Part 15: “The Bargain Made Beneath the Cross”

Two days passed.

Two full days after the church.

And he was still her.

Still in her body. Still in her room. Still wearing her clothes.

Not once had Maria or Stephen mentioned the prosthetics. They hadn’t even suggested calling the professionals back. There had been no appointments, no sign that this appearance was temporary. They spoke to him only as Jerusha - always with a smile, always with a softness that felt too real to question.

Kathir hadn’t dared to bring it up.

Not until that night.

The Calm Before

That evening, dinner was a simple affair.

He wore a short cherry-pink cotton nighty with tiny white bows at the shoulder. Underneath was the usual lilac camisole that now felt almost natural against his prosthetic skin, and a plain white panty with the Joy tag on the inner hem. The anklets remained - part of the family rhythm now.

They sat cross-legged on the floor in the prayer room for dinner. Maria had made rasam sadam and masala seppankizhangu fry. Stephen poured him buttermilk and kept smiling through the meal like he was living inside a prayer.

Kathir barely ate.

His throat had a knot.

But when the plates were cleared and the prayer lamp was lit, he sat up straighter, wiped his hands, and finally asked, in a quiet, boyish voice that now sounded wrong in this house:

“Amma… Appa… when are the people coming to remove this… prosthetic thing?”

Silence.

Utter silence.

Maria’s fingers froze mid-folding of a towel. Stephen’s hands stayed still on his knees, eyes glazed like he had just been dropped from heaven onto earth.

And then came the sighs.

Heavy, tired sighs - like the ones people give before admitting something unforgivable.

The Real Ask

“Jeru kutty,” Maria said first. “Please don’t take it the wrong way.”

“I mean,” Stephen added, scooting forward and placing a hand on his - on her - knee. “You’ve already given us more than we deserve. That Sunday… you gave our lives back.”

Kathir’s chest felt tight. His prosthetic chest moved with every breath - too real, too warm, too soft.

“But,” Stephen continued, looking into Jerusha’s eyes, “we have one last… request.”

Kathir blinked.

He didn’t answer.

Because something about Stephen’s expression made him feel cornered, like an animal caught inside a house it didn’t belong in.

Stephen took a breath.

“We never declared Jerusha’s death, kutty. Never filed it. All the documents - birth certificate, Aadhaar, transfer certificates, previous school records - they are all still valid. We had the influence… we just couldn’t do it.”

Maria leaned in, tears already waiting. “She was supposed to start school again. Eleventh standard. She was so excited.”

Kathir’s spine stiffened. “So… what are you saying?”

Stephen looked him directly in the eye.

“I’m saying… please. Be her. Not just at home. Not just for Sunday. Please… finish school. Live as Jerusha. Just for two years.”

The Bargain

Silence thickened the room.

Kathir sat frozen.

His bare legs, pale under the nighty, suddenly felt cold.

“Two years?” he finally whispered.

Stephen nodded slowly.

Maria moved closer, clasping his hands. “It will mean the world to us. I’ll take care of everything, kutty. I’ll wake you. Pack your lunch. I’ll iron your uniforms, I’ll braid your hair---”

Kathir recoiled just slightly, but not enough to break the moment.

“I don’t…” he started.

But Stephen cut in.

“I’ll give you everything. Property. Money. Land. A free degree. You don’t even need to go back to that college again - I’ll arrange for an open university degree for you in our name. Jerusha Anne Joy. You’ll be settled for life. What most people earn in hundred years, you’ll have in two.”

His throat dried up.

He wanted to say no. That it was insane. That he was a boy. That he wasn’t Jerusha. That wearing a nighty and smiling for Sunday was one thing - but school, every day, as a girl?

His mind screamed at him.

But Maria whispered gently, “Just until twelfth ends, kutty. Let her finish what she couldn’t.”

The Decision

That night, he lay staring at the ceiling fan.

The nighty clung to his body in the gentle AC. The lace camisole tightened a little at the underarm. The anklets chimed when he shifted.

He didn’t message his friend. He didn’t want her doubts tonight.

He remembered all the things he had tried to run away from: his father’s anger, his brothers’ violence, the dry dirt fields, the fights over boiled rice, the way no one looked at him with love.

And here?

They called him kutty.

They kissed his forehead.

They cried with joy when he smiled.

He knew the humiliation of it - being seen in girls’ uniforms, having to sit and speak and walk like a 17-year-old schoolgirl. Of learning to tie ribbons, wear tights, talk soft, fold hands, walk shoulders in, tuck in skirts, and smile like someone else.

But the house was full of perfume and protection.

And more than anything - it was full of purpose.

At midnight, still awake, he sat up.

He went to the prayer room quietly. The silver diya still faintly burned.

He whispered just above breath:
“Okay.”

The Aftermath

He didn’t expect what came next.

He told them during breakfast the next morning. Quietly. Blushing. Head down.

Maria screamed. Stephen dropped the glass.

They hugged him so tight he couldn’t breathe.

Maria cupped his face and cried, “Our daughter is going to school!”

Stephen choked. “Joy to God!”

They called the school that same evening.

Arrangements were made.

The Realisation

That night, Kathir sat alone on the edge of Jerusha’s bed.

The mirror didn’t shock him anymore.

The breasts, the hips, the smooth skin, the faint shine of gloss still left on his lips - it all stared back.

He was Jerusha Anne Joy.

For two years.

He curled his knees to his chest. His nighty slipped up a little and exposed the lacy panty. He didn’t pull it down.

He just stared.

At the ceiling.

Humiliated.

Confused.

Agreed.