Dearest Diary,
The Arabian Sea is shimmering outside, a breathtaking sapphire canvas stretching as far as the eye can see. It’s barely 6 AM, but sleep evaded me tonight. Excitement, you see, is a terrible thief of slumber, and today, it's positively criminal. Today is Sunday. My Sunday.
Even now, as I sit here in my baby doll nighty – a soft, powder-blue number with delicate lace trim – a thrill courses through me. I’ve already put on my usual "weekday wife" ensemble. It’s a subtle joy, a whisper of femininity against the demands of my corporate life. Just a touch of kohl to define my eyes, a delicate rose tint on my lips, and the faintest dusting of shimmering powder. My jewelry is similarly restrained – glass bangles jingling softly on my wrists, small jhumka earrings swinging lightly, a tiny diamond nose ring twinkling on one nostril, a delicate mangalsutra nestled against my chest, a small red bindi adorning my forehead and a streak of sindoor filling my hairline. And of course, my anklets, whose tinkling music is my constant companion. This is just a prelude, a mere sketch for the masterpiece that today will become.
Weekdays are a compromise. During the day, I’m Rahul, the sharp marketing executive. But in the evenings, after my work is done, the real me emerges. I slip into a simple saree, add a touch more makeup, and lose myself in household chores. It’s a sacred ritual. I love hearing the gentle rustle of the saree, the delicate chime of my bangles as I chop vegetables, the soft swish of the broom as I sweep the floors. I despise the maids, truly. They steal my joy, these women who invade my space and perform the tasks that are rightfully mine. Taking care of Priya, tending to our home, that's my privilege.
Sundays, however, are different. Sundays are a full immersion. A complete transformation.
The house is quiet now. Priya is still asleep, her face serene and beautiful. I tiptoe into the kitchen, the bangles on my wrists singing a joyful tune. I’ve already planned the day's menu – masala dosa for breakfast, butter chicken with naan for lunch, and maybe biryani for dinner. She loves my cooking. The thought of her enjoying my efforts fills me with an immeasurable happiness.
08:00 AM
The transformation is complete. I can barely recognize the man who stares back at me from the mirror. Rahul is gone. Today, I am entirely the housewife, devoted and dazzling.
Let me describe the metamorphosis, dear diary. It began with the saree, of course. A masterpiece of emerald green silk, embroidered with intricate gold threadwork. The petticoat, a shimmering gold, rustles beneath, a secret layer of luxury. The blouse, oh, the blouse! A riot of colour, with peacock embroidery, it is stitched so tight, that it holds the breast forms perfectly in place.
Then came the jewelry. A cascade of shimmering metal and sparkling stones. First, the earrings – enormous, dangling affairs crafted from gold and studded with rubies and emeralds. They swing dramatically with every movement, their weight a comforting presence. Then, the nose rings – not one, but two, adorning both nostrils, each a delicate filigree of gold set with tiny diamonds. The mangalsutra, a heavy, intricate piece, symbolizes my devotion, my commitment. Layer upon layer of necklaces followed – a delicate choker of pearls, a long, ornate chain with a pendant of Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and prosperity, and several shorter strands of sparkling gems.
My wrists are adorned with a symphony of bangles – dozens of them, crafted from glass, gold, and precious stones, a kaleidoscope of colour that chimes and sings with every gesture. Rings glitter on every finger, each a miniature work of art. Toe rings, delicate silver bands, grace each toe. A heavy silver waist chain cinches my saree at the waist, its delicate bells tinkling softly with every step.
The wig, a long, flowing mane of raven black hair, is carefully styled into an elaborate braid, adorned with fresh jasmine flowers. The scent is intoxicating, a heady mix of sweetness and sensuality. And then, the heels. Oh, the heels! Six inches of pure, unadulterated bliss. Walking in them is an art form, a delicate balance of grace and power. I’ve perfected it over the years, a skill I’m fiercely proud of.
Finally, the makeup. A flawless base, meticulously applied. Contouring to sculpt my cheekbones, highlighting to illuminate my features. Eyeshadow in shades of shimmering gold and emerald green, perfectly complementing my saree. A bold stroke of eyeliner to define my eyes, and several coats of mascara to lengthen and thicken my lashes. A vibrant red lipstick, applied with precision. And last, but certainly not least, the bindi. The largest, most extravagant bindi I own, a crimson masterpiece studded with glittering crystals. And finally, the sindoor. A thick, bold streak of vermillion, announcing to the world that I am a wife, devoted and cherished.
I twirl in front of the mirror, a vision of opulent femininity. I am ready. Ready to serve. Ready to love. Ready to be Priya’s everything.
2:00 PM
The morning has been a whirlwind of activity. Priya woke up around 9, and her face lit up when she saw me. "Rahul, you look stunning!" she exclaimed, pulling me into a hug. That simple affirmation is all I need.
I served her breakfast in bed, the masala dosas crisp and golden brown, the sambar fragrant and spicy. She devoured them with gusto, showering me with praise. Then, it was time for chores. I dusted every surface in the apartment, vacuumed the floors, and polished the furniture until it gleamed. I even cleaned her shoes, meticulously scrubbing and polishing each pair until they shone like new.
Priya, of course, has been teasing me mercilessly all day. "Rahul, darling, could you fetch me my magazine? No, not that one, the one with the Bollywood gossip." Or, "Rahul, my love, I'm parched! Water, please, with just a hint of lemon." She makes me run around, fetching this and that, adding frivolous tasks to my already overflowing list. But I don’t mind. In fact, I relish it. Each request, each errand, is an opportunity to show my love, my devotion.
I’ve just finished preparing lunch – the butter chicken is simmering on the stove, the naan is warm and fluffy. The aroma fills the apartment, a tantalizing invitation to indulge. Priya is lounging on the sofa, watching TV. I'll serve her lunch now, and then, perhaps, a massage. Her shoulders have been tense lately.
9:00 PM
The day is drawing to a close, but the joy lingers. Priya is now relaxing on the bed, watching her favourite shows. I am kneeling at her feet, massaging her legs. The tension is melting away under my touch.
The day has been fulfilling. I cooked, I cleaned, I served. I catered to Priya's every whim. I even managed to squeeze in a few moments for myself – a cup of chai on the balcony, watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of orange and purple; a stolen moment to admire myself in the mirror, reveling in the beauty of my transformation.
I'm back in my baby doll nighty now, the heavy jewelry replaced with lighter, more comfortable pieces. The makeup has been toned down, but the sindoor remains, a bold declaration of my marital status.
As I knead Priya's calves, she sighs contentedly. "You know, Rahul," she says, her voice soft and drowsy, "I don't know what I'd do without you."
My heart swells with happiness. "I love taking care of you, Priya," I reply, my voice thick with emotion.
"I know," she says, smiling. "And I love being taken care of."
I pause, hesitating for a moment before asking, "Next Sunday seems so far away."
Priya chuckles. "Well, you're in luck," she says, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "I just found out that Saturday is a holiday! Which means… two whole days of you dressing up and pampering me!"
My heart leaps with joy. Two days! An entire weekend dedicated to my passion, my devotion.
"And," she continues, her voice laced with anticipation, "I've decided to host a kitty party for my friends on Saturday. You'll prepare all the food, decorate the house, and… maybe, just maybe… I'll introduce you to them."
The thought sends a shiver of excitement down my spine. To be revealed, to be accepted, to be celebrated… it's a dream come true.
"And," Priya adds with a wink, "I’ve already planned a deep cleaning of the entire house. Every sheet, every curtain will be washed meticulously. I want the house sparkling. There'll be lots to do."
I smile back at her. Two days of chores, of service, of love. I wouldn't have it any other way.
"I can't wait, Priya," I whisper, pressing a kiss to her feet. "I can't wait."
