Becoming Pavani

“Why do you have to cut your hair again?” complained Pavan to his wife, Maya.

“It’s really difficult to maintain long hair, Pavan,” Maya replied, annoyed.

Pavan had always wanted Maya to grow her hair long—really long. But her silky strands barely reached her chest, no matter how many times he requested.

The next day, a Sunday, Pavan was still sulking. The tension lingered like humidity after a storm.

“Pavan,” Maya said, trying to reason with him, “you don’t understand what it takes to manage long hair.”

“Bullshit!” he snapped.

Maya’s face hardened. That was the final straw.

“You think it’s easy? Fine. Why don’t you try maintaining long hair for six months? If you manage, I’ll grow mine longer. Fair?”

Pavan smirked, “As you can see, I don’t have long hair.”

Maya grinned back, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Don’t worry. That can be fixed.”

Before Pavan could react, she grabbed the car keys. “Let’s go.”

The silence between them in the car was thick with challenge. In 40 minutes, they reached the salon.

Maya marched to the receptionist. “Hair extensions. Premium quality. Waist length.”

“For him,” she added.

Pavan sat there, fuming but unwilling to back down. The stylists got to work. His naturally thick shoulder-length hair made the job easier. After a few hours, it was done.

When he stood before the mirror, Maya pulled the hair from his back to his front. Pavan’s eyes widened in shock—the silky tresses fell well past his crotch.

Maya paid the bill with a smirk. As they exited, the wind caught Pavan’s new locks, blowing them across his face. He huffed, trying to clear his vision. Maya giggled at his struggle.

At home, Pavan realized how impractical the long hair was. The next morning, his hair was a mess. After much hesitation, he asked Maya, “Can you... help me with this?”

She sat him down and began brushing it gently.

“What are you going to do?”

“Braid it,” Maya said, already parting the hair.

“I don’t want a braid!”

“It’s either a braid or going to work looking like a bird’s nest.”

Grumbling, Pavan sat still. Maya braided the hair beautifully, added a barrette and scrunchie, and placed it neatly over his shoulder.

At the office, his thick braid was the talk of the day. His coworkers laughed, whispered, and teased. He told them he lost a bet with his wife—he had to wear extensions for six months. The nickname came quickly.

“Pavani!” called out Kavya, a cheerful coworker. “Help me with this report?”

Pavan blinked. “Pavani?”

“Well, you look more like Pavani than Pavan right now,” she winked.

Soon the name stuck.

Weeks passed. Every evening Maya braided Pavani’s hair in new styles—fishtail, French braid, Dutch braid. At first, he resisted. Then he tolerated. Eventually... he enjoyed.

Then came a twist.

One Friday, Pavan returned home to find his mother visiting.

She raised an eyebrow. “Turn around.”

He obeyed.

Upon seeing his long braid, she smiled. “If you wanted long hair, you could have told me. I’d have helped you grow it.”

Before he could protest, she brushed his hair and pinned jasmine flowers into the braid. The scent followed him everywhere. Then she made him help in the kitchen, saying, “If you’re dressed like a woman, act like one.”

That weekend, Pavan—now Pavani—helped Maya and his mom around the house. He wore flowers in his braid and learned how to fold saris.

Something in him softened.

One Sunday, Maya looked at him with bright eyes. “Let’s go out as Pavani.”

“No way,” he replied.

“Just once?”

Eventually, he agreed.

Maya helped him shave, bathe, and dress in her unused black anarkali. She adjusted the padded bra, applied light makeup, adorned his ears with dangling earrings, and fixed anklets around his feet.

He looked in the mirror—and gasped. A beautiful woman stared back.

They watched a movie, wandered the mall, and Maya even took him to the women’s washroom. She reapplied his lipstick with a playful smile.

“Now you know why women take so long.”

A month passed. Then two.

Every weekend, they went out as Maya and Pavani. Every weekday, Maya styled his hair before work. He began wearing innerwear too—Maya insisted on the bra, saying it shaped the look.

At first, it made Pavan self-conscious. But he got used to it. Even Kavya noticed.

“Adjust your bra, Pavani,” she whispered once at work.

He was mortified.

Later, she added him to WhatsApp groups about saree styles and jewelry. When he told Maya, she grinned. “We women look out for each other.”

Festival season arrived. In a store, Pavani was mesmerized by a lehenga choli.

“Try it,” Maya urged.

“I was just checking the fabric,” he stammered.

“You only know its weight when you wear it,” Maya said and dragged him into the trial room.

As she tightened the strings at his waist, he whispered, “I’ll wear your lehenga for the festival.”

Maya turned, eyes sparkling. “So you had your eyes on it all along?”

On the day of the festival, she helped him into her wedding lehenga. She tied the blouse, applied makeup, and adorned him with jewelry—choker, long necklace, bangles, anklets, and a maang tikka.

When Pavani saw herself in the mirror, she was speechless.

“You look like a bride,” Maya whispered, hugging her tightly.

They did a full photoshoot. Maya was ecstatic. “One thing’s missing,” she teased. “A groom.”

“Stop it!” Pavani protested, blushing.

As the sixth month drew to a close, Maya gently asked, “Should I book the salon to remove the extensions?”

Pavani hesitated but said yes, not wanting to seem odd.

That night, she lay awake.

The next morning, Pavani entered the kitchen while Maya was cooking.

“Maya?” she said softly.

“Yes?”

“Can Pavani come back now and then?”

Maya’s heart skipped a beat, but she remained calm. “Of course.”

“And... can I keep the long hair?”

Maya turned slowly, fighting a smile. “Yes, but under one condition.”

“Okay?”

“When we’re home or going out, you’ll be Pavani in sarees. No more anarkalis or pants.”

“I don’t know how to wear a saree!”

She laughed. “I’ll teach you. Like I taught you everything else.”

“Are you really okay with this?” he asked, emotional.

“I’m more than okay. I’ve never felt closer to you than I do with Pavani.”

Hand in hand, they walked to the bedroom.

“Where are we going?” asked Pavani.

“To dress my beautiful wife in her first saree,” Maya said with a beaming smile.

And so, Pavani was born—not out of punishment or challenge, but out of love, empathy, and transformation. In every pleat and braid, Pavan found not only Maya, but a new side of himself. A side that felt beautiful, seen, and deeply loved.