"From Ponytail to Pallu"

Vansh had always been someone who paid attention to his appearance, but nothing had ever come close to the kind of attention he gave to his hair now. For the past three years, he had grown it out slowly, carefully, lovingly. It wasn’t something he did on a whim. Arya had asked him once, “Will you grow your hair out for me? I love long hair on boys.”

And somehow, despite laughing it off at first, he did. What began as a silly gesture for his girlfriend turned into a commitment. She wasn’t just supportive—she was obsessive. Every weekend call began with, “Did you oil it?” or “Show me how long it’s gotten now.” She had him on a full hair care regime: hot oil massages, shampoo rotations, leave-in conditioners, DIY hair masks. She even taught him how to towel-dry it the right way. It reached his mid-back now, soft and thick, swishing like a glossy horse tail when open.

Arya used to joke, “Vansh, your hair is healthier than mine! Are you secretly in a shampoo commercial?”

His family, of course, didn’t know about Arya. They only knew their boy had long hair—really long hair—and had stopped bothering to ask why. It became part of the furniture of daily life. Ma would sometimes say, “Comb it properly, it looks like you just got out of bed.” His younger sister Nehal, six years younger and full of sarcasm, often teased, “Bhaiya, if you wear a dupatta now, people will start calling you didi.”

But today was different.

It was the first weekend of summer vacation, and Vansh had returned home from college. The heat was oppressive. Fans spun helplessly in the ceiling, barely moving the warm air. His mother, Vinita, stood in the kitchen, sweating in her pale cotton saree, wiping her forehead with the end of her pallu.

Vansh sat on the sofa, scrolling through his phone, hair tied in a low bun at the nape of his neck.

Vinita walked past and muttered, “Uff... this saree. Sweat sticks to everything in this heat. Men have it easy.”

Vansh looked up, amused. “But Ma, isn’t saree supposed to be the most breathable thing? It’s open from all sides, right? So airy.”

Vinita turned sharply. “Arey wah, beta. So now you're an expert on sarees too?”

He grinned. “I mean… logically. Pants stick more. At least you get ventilation.”

She rolled her eyes and kept walking.

Nehal piped in from the other room. “Yeah Bhaiya, why don’t you try wearing a saree in this heat?”

Vinita laughed dryly. “Exactly. He should try draping six yards of fabric and doing housework. Then we’ll see how airy it is.”

Vansh stretched lazily. “Well, if it’s about heat, I don’t think saree is worse than jeans. Plus, you always said keeping long hair is so tough. I’ve done that, haven’t I?”

Vinita paused.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean,” he added quickly, “you used to say, ‘ladkon ko kya pata, lambe baal sambhalna kya hota hai.’ But look at me. I’ve had long hair for three years now. It’s not even that difficult.”

Vinita stared at him. “Beta, having long hair and maintaining it are two different things. I used to braid it every morning, oil it, manage it during cooking, work... it was never easy.”

“But I maintain it too!” Vansh insisted. “Oil every weekend, trim the ends, wash twice a week—”

“Because you live like a prince!” Vinita snapped. “Do you do jhaadu? Pocha? Stand in a hot kitchen with steam hitting your face while hair sticks to your neck?”

“It’s still manageable,” Vansh shrugged.

Vinita narrowed her eyes. “You’re missing the point. Saree, long hair, housework—everything comes with its own struggles.”

Vansh’s voice grew smug. “I just think people overreact. Saree isn’t some punishment. And long hair, if cared for, is easy. I don’t get the drama.”

Vinita folded her arms. “Drama?”

“Yes, like this complaining about heat and saree and hair. It’s fabric and style. What’s the big deal?”

Nehal peeked into the room, eyes wide. “Ooooo, Bhaiya’s going to get it.”

Vinita tilted her head, now visibly annoyed. “Okay. You think it’s easy?”

“I just said it’s not as hard as it’s made to be.”

Vinita’s tone cooled. “Then wear it.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Wear the saree.”

“Ma, seriously?”

“You said it’s airy, it’s manageable. Fine. Wear it for a week. Do regular housework. With your long hair, of course.”

He laughed, but her expression didn’t change. “Ma... it was just a comment.”

“Wear it,” she repeated. “One week. Full saree. Daily. Work with me and Alka bai. And—” she raised a finger “—if you so much as mention that it’s uncomfortable, or tough, or complain even once, then that’s it. Saree will be your home dress forever.”

Nehal gasped, clearly entertained.

Vansh looked at both of them. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m very serious.”

“What if I don’t agree?”

Vinita shrugged. “Then don’t talk like you know what it's like. Don’t belittle our struggles.”

His ego flared. “Fine! I’ll do it. Seven days. Saree. I’ll even help in the kitchen. Let’s see who complains.”

Vinita nodded. “Done.”

Nehal clapped. “This is going to be so much fun.”

“Starting tomorrow morning,” Vinita added calmly. “You wake up, you wear saree, you do work.”

“I’ll do it,” Vansh said confidently. “But don’t expect me to suddenly start dancing in it or anything.”

Vinita gave a small smile. “Nobody wants you to dance. But do everything else.”

Later that night, while Vansh was brushing his hair in front of the mirror, Vinita entered the room with a towel.

“One thing,” she said casually.

“Yeah?”

“No beard. No body hair. Saree doesn’t go with all that. Looks odd.”

He turned. “Are you serious?”

“Completely. Shave your beard, your chest, arms, legs—whatever shows. Either you do it right, or don’t do it.”

“But—”

“You agreed. Ego mein kiya tha na?”

He nodded slowly. “Fine. Razor?”

“Top drawer in the bathroom. Use the Veet if you want. Nehal has some.”

He stared at the drawer and then back at the mirror.

The confidence started to thin. He ran his fingers through his thick mane. It looked beautiful. He knew that. But now he had to match it with everything else?

Still, he had agreed. His pride wouldn’t let him back out now.

That night, under the hum of the ceiling fan, he shaved. First the beard—gone. He looked younger, unfamiliar. Then his arms. Then legs. Awkward, strange, but he did it. It took nearly an hour. When he finally lay in bed, exhausted and slick with moisturizer, he stared at the ceiling and muttered to himself.

“Just one week. How hard can it be?”

But even as he closed his eyes, there was a small twinge of doubt.

The ceiling fan creaked slowly overhead, spreading a warm breeze through Vansh’s room. He stirred in bed, eyes still heavy, limbs still sore. The previous night’s shaving session had been awkward and exhausting. His arms felt smooth but strange, and his face looked unfamiliar every time he glanced in the mirror.

Knock-knock.

“Vansh, get up,” came his mother’s voice. “You agreed, remember?”

He groaned and turned over. “Five more minutes, Ma...”

“Nope. This isn’t a college hostel. You want to play grown-up saree challenge, toh uth jao. Jaldi nahao. I’ve kept everything ready.”

Still half-asleep, Vansh pulled himself out of bed. His feet touched the cool floor, and he scratched his head, still in disbelief. Did I really say yes to this? But pride wouldn’t let him back out now.

He trudged to the bathroom. A bucket of lukewarm water was already filled. He took a long bath, scrubbing off every last bit of stickiness from the night. His skin still tingled slightly from the shaving cream.

When he came out wrapped in a towel, his mother was waiting in his room—arms folded, a smug smile on her face.

On the bed lay a perfectly folded cotton saree—a bright pink base with green borders, delicate golden designs dancing across the pallu, the kind of saree you’d see someone wear on a summer puja morning. Next to it was a green blouse—fitted, short-sleeved, and visibly snug-looking. A matching pink cotton petticoat sat beside it, neatly ironed.

Vansh blinked. “All this... already?”

Vinita nodded. “You thought I wouldn’t take this seriously? Come on. Petticoat first.”

He hesitated. “Do I really have to wear all of this?”

“You agreed. Saree ka matlab full attire. And don't start complaining already.”

Reluctantly, he picked up the petticoat and pulled it on. The fabric clung around his waist tightly as he tied the drawstring, a slight discomfort growing at his hips.

“Feels like I’m being cinched in,” he muttered.

“That’s the idea,” she smirked. “Now blouse.”

Vansh stared at the blouse and took a breath. “It’s tight, isn’t it?”

“You’ll manage. Girls wear these every day.”

He struggled to put it on, arm twisted awkwardly as he tried to get his hand through the sleeve. The back hooks were nearly impossible, and Vinita had to help.

“Stand straight,” she said.

“Ma, I can’t breathe,” Vansh gasped as she did the final hook.

“You’ll adjust.”

The blouse clung to his chest, pressing his shoulders inward slightly. The neckline felt too wide, the sleeves too snug.

Next came the saree. Vinita unraveled the six yards with a flourish and began draping.

“Stand still,” she instructed, tucking the fabric into the petticoat. “You’ll learn soon. But for now, let me do it.”

It was a slow process. She made perfect pleats for the front and tucked them in carefully. Then came the pleating of the pallu. She used over 30 safety pins, each one carefully placed—at the shoulder, on the side, even hidden inside folds to hold it all in place.

“You’re pinning me into a cage,” Vansh mumbled.

“Good. Welcome to our world.”

After thirty minutes, he stood in front of the mirror. The pink and green saree wrapped him fully, blouse hugging his torso, pallu cascading down from his shoulder like a river of cotton and gold.

“I feel like I’m gift-wrapped,” he said flatly.

Vinita chuckled. “We’re not done yet.”

She opened a small jewelry box.

“What is this now?” he asked.

“You said you’re doing it fully. So here’s the full look. Earrings, bangles, payal.”

“Ma, come on—this is overkill.”

“No arguments. This is for realism. And you don’t get to choose halfway. This is my challenge too.”

He sighed. “Fine.”

First came the golden jhumkas—dangling earrings that lightly tugged at his earlobes. Then a stack of pink glass bangles for each hand. They clinked with every small movement, the cold glass rattling against his wrist.

“Too tight,” he muttered.

“Chup. Girls wear tighter.”

She crouched and tied a pair of golden payals around his freshly-shaven ankles. With every step, they jingled.

The constant clinking, tugging, and pinching irritated him. But he remembered the condition. No complaints. If I complain even once, I wear this forever.

He held it all in.

Vinita then took out a green bindi and gently pressed it onto his forehead. “Now you look complete.”

He looked in the mirror. Saree perfectly pinned, bangles shining, jhumkas swinging slightly, bindi placed, and anklets jingling.

Only one thing was missing—his hair.

Vinita stood back, hands on her hips, scanning him from head to toe. “Only one thing left now—your hair.”

Vansh raised an eyebrow. “What about it?”

“You’ve got long enough hair. No excuses. Style it properly. I don’t want it just hanging like a mess. It should match the saree.”

He nodded slowly, glancing at the mirror. “What do you want me to do?”

Vinita tapped her chin. “Hmm… do a puff in the front, and leave the rest open. That should suit the blouse and saree.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. You’ve had three years to figure this out. Show me what you’ve learned.”

Vansh took a breath, sat down in front of the mirror, and began untying his bun. As he pulled out the pins one by one, thick, dark strands spilled over his shoulders and back. Within seconds, his full length of hair cascaded down—wavy, glossy, and perfectly maintained. It flowed past his shoulders, brushing the middle of his back, shiny and healthy thanks to years of Arya’s care.

He grabbed the comb and started detangling slowly, working from the ends upward like Arya had always taught him.

Vinita leaned in, arms crossed, watching in silence.

He sectioned the front portion of his hair, gave it a slight lift, teased the roots a little, and carefully clipped it into a neat puff using black bobby pins. Then he brushed the rest back and let it fall behind his shoulders.

The result was clean and elegant—a soft front puff, just enough height, and the rest of his hair framing his saree-clad body like a veil of black silk.

Vinita raised her eyebrows, half-impressed, half-suspicious. “You… you know how to do all this?”

Vansh didn’t meet her eyes. “I’ve had long hair for a while. Tried a few things, that’s all.”

“Hmm. Looks like you’ve done it more than just ‘a few times.’”

He shrugged. “Me and… someone used to try different styles, just for fun.”

Vinita gave him a long look but didn’t ask further. Instead, she smirked and teased, “Not bad, Vanshika. You’re starting to look the part now.”

Nehal entered just then and stopped in her tracks.

“What the—Bhaiya?”

She burst out laughing. “Oh my god. You actually look like a proper housewife!”

Vansh glared. “Shut up.”

“Vanshika,” she teased. “That should be your name this week.”

“Nehal, stop it,” he snapped, adjusting his pallu.

“Vanshika didi! Saree suits you,” she said with a bow.

Vinita laughed. “Okay okay, enough. Let’s start the day.”

First task—vegetable peeling.

Vansh sat on the floor cross-legged, a steel plate in front of him, filled with lauki, aloo, and bhindi.

Every time he bent forward, the pallu slipped slightly. His bangles clinked. His earrings swayed. His hair brushed against his cheeks.

He kept pulling it back.

“I told you to pin the hair,” Vinita said. “Or it’ll irritate you.”

“I’ll manage,” he replied.

His back hurt from sitting low. His arms itched with the sweat under the blouse.

Still, no complaints.

Once the peeling was done, Vinita handed him a stack of dry clothes.

“Iron these. Fold and stack.”

Ironing in a saree was a whole new task. The heat of the iron matched the heat of his body. The fabric clung to his legs. His bangles kept clinking every time he moved his wrist.

When he finally sat back, Nehal passed by. “You’re glowing, bhaiya. Saree sweat looks good on you.”

He didn’t reply.

Next, Vinita gave him the task of helping Alka bai in the kitchen.

He walked in, and Alka turned, squinting. “Aree? Madam ban gaye?”

Vansh rolled his eyes. “Challenge.”

Alka smirked. “You got the hips for it, beta. Now cut these tomatoes.”

He stood beside her, stirring the dal, chopping vegetables, and keeping the plates ready. The heat from the stove was unbearable. The saree stuck to his back. His jhumkas burned his skin when steam hit his ear.

But he stayed quiet.

When lunch was ready, he served Vinita and Nehal first.

Then Vinita said, “You eat with Alka. On the floor. That’s her routine.”

“Wait, what?”

“You’re helping like a housemaid. Eat like one.”

So Vansh sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, eating from the same plate as Alka.

“You’re lucky,” Alka said between bites. “You get to wear clean saree. Mine smells of haldi by 9 a.m.”

Vansh smiled faintly, chewing slowly.

Post-lunch, he cleaned utensils with Alka, washed and dried them, then arranged everything back in the cabinets. His blouse was damp with sweat. His back itched. The payal noise wouldn’t stop.

Vinita came in with a duster. “Furniture.”

Vansh wiped every shelf and corner. Nehal sat watching, munching on chips.

“Didi,” she said. “Can you do my hair? I have to go for Riya’s party.”

He stared at her. “Me?”

“Yes, duh. You're practically my didi now.”

Vinita handed him a comb. “Go on.”

He rolled his eyes and sat her down, combing through her hair, parting it neatly, and doing a quick braided ponytail.

“You’re good,” Nehal said. “Vanshika didi knows all the tricks.”

After she left for the party, Vinita sat on the sofa and lifted her feet.

“Massage, please.”

He groaned.

“Not a complaint, I hope?” she asked.

“No, no,” he muttered, rubbing her calves.

His fingers hurt, his back ached, and his earrings still swayed as he bent forward.

After dinner, he changed into a cotton nightgown, pink with tiny floral print, handed by Vinita.

“Wear this. Better than t-shirt.”

He slipped into it, tied his hair into a loose bun, and sat down in front of her.

She opened a bottle of warm coconut oil.

“You’ve done enough today,” she said, massaging it gently into his scalp.

“You think I’m doing well?” he asked.

Vinita smiled. “You haven’t complained once. But your face says everything.”

He chuckled. “It’s harder than I thought.”

She combed through the oiled hair and tied it into a thick plait.

“Sleep. Tomorrow is only Day 2.”

He got into bed, sore, shiny, and silently nervous.

As he closed his eyes, the payals jingled one last time.

The second morning didn’t feel much different—until Vansh rolled over and felt the soreness in his lower back. He groaned, rubbing the side of his waist. The saree pins had left faint marks on his skin. He had tossed and turned all night in the loose cotton gown his mother had given him, but nothing helped the ache that still clung to his spine.

A knock came.

“Uth jao, Vansh,” Vinita called. “We have work to do.”

He mumbled something incoherent and sat up, blinking against the light. His hands reflexively reached up to tighten his loose bun before he shuffled to the bathroom for his bath.

After he came out, towel wrapped around his waist, he stopped short.

On the bed wasn’t another saree.

Instead, a neatly folded yellow salwar with a bright pink kameez was laid out. A matching pink dupatta sat on top.

Vansh raised his eyebrows. “Ma? This isn’t a saree.”

Vinita entered just then, carrying a plastic box full of bangles. “Yes. Thought you’d get too used to the saree. I have… bigger plans for tomorrow.”

He stared at her, half-relieved, half-wary. “So today’s a break?”

“If you can call this a break,” she said, chuckling. “Put it on. Fast.”

He dried up and pulled the yellow salwar up first. It was snug but far more flexible than a petticoat. The pink kameez came next—it fit like a slightly-too-tight kurta and ended just above his knees. The neck was slightly deep, and it had back strings near the nape.

“Turn around,” Vinita said.

She tugged the strings and tied them into a neat bow. The cloth tightened slightly against his chest and upper back. Vansh felt the fabric clinging to his freshly shaven skin.

“This is actually... okay,” he said. “It’s just like kurta-pajama.”

“Hmm,” Vinita muttered. “We’ll see after a few hours.”

She then sat him down and began stacking bangles on his wrists—double the amount from yesterday. Pink and gold glass bangles, reaching almost halfway up his forearms.

“Is this necessary?” he asked, trying not to wince as the cold glass clinked against his skin.

“Of course. Don’t want your arms to feel empty,” she said flatly.

She handed him a pair of gold jhumkas, slightly larger than yesterday’s. He pierced them in with minor effort; his earlobes were already sore.

Then came the pink bindi.

“Look at you,” Vinita said, tapping his cheek. “Today’s look is festive.”

“Yeah, a festive hostage,” Vansh muttered under his breath.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.”

Finally, the hair.

Vinita looked at him in the mirror. “Tie it in a loose ponytail today. Keep it low. We’ll keep it simple.”

He sat down, unpinned his bun, and let the long, wavy hair fall loose. Even without oil, it shone in the morning light. He brushed it thoroughly, starting at the ends, slowly working his way up, avoiding tangles. Then, carefully, he tied it into a low ponytail near the nape of his neck, letting the remaining hair fall down his back.

Vinita nodded in approval. “Clean and neat. Much better.”

“But this much bangles?” he muttered, wrists already clinking loudly.

“It’s tradition. And besides—Alka bai’s not coming today.”

“What?”

“She had a family emergency. So, congratulations—you’re the maid now.”

Vansh sighed and followed her into the hall.

“Start with jhaadu,” Vinita said, handing him the broom. “From pooja room to balcony. And I want corners done properly.”

He bent over, starting with the corner behind the shoe rack.

The moment he bent, he groaned.

“Ow—my back...”

“Back pain already?” Vinita called from the kitchen. “You lift weights, don’t you?”

“This is different,” he muttered.

As he moved from room to room, the dupatta kept slipping, the tight kameez clung to his back with sweat, and his jhumkas bounced against his neck.

Then came pocha (mopping). Vinita handed him the bucket and cloth and walked away.

By the time he was halfway through the living room, his knees ached. He wiped his forehead, panting.

“God,” he whispered. “Why is this harder than squats?”

After sweeping and mopping, he washed his hands and joined Vinita in the kitchen.

“Cut onions and tomatoes,” she instructed.

He picked up the knife and began, but the sleeves of his kameez kept sliding down his wrists, and the bangles clinked non-stop.

“Do girls really work like this every day?” he asked.

“Hmm,” Vinita said, stirring the dal. “We don’t complain.”

As they sat to eat, he reached for the roti, but Vinita stopped him.

“Oldest girl eats last.”

“What?”

“You’re helping like one, dressing like one. Then follow all rules. Serve me and Nehal first. Eat after us.”

So he did. He served his mother and sister, then sat on the floor, cross-legged in the kitchen, and ate alone.

Next came folding and ironing clothes. The ironing board was too low, and his back hurt from hunching. After that, it was utensils—scrubbing oily kadhais and plates, stacking everything neatly.

When he finally sat on the sofa, exhausted, Nehal grinned at him.

“Your posture’s changed.”

“What?”

“You sit straighter. More… ladylike. Your dupatta even falls like mine.”

He looked down. She was right.

Before he could respond, Vinita handed him a comb.

“Do my hair. Quickly. I have to go pick up Nehal’s tuition books.”

As he did her hair, she said, “You’ll be alone for some time. Don’t open the door to anyone. Except if it’s the sabzi delivery.”

“Fine.”

First Public Encounter
Sure enough, around 4 p.m., the doorbell rang.

Vansh adjusted his dupatta, cleared his throat, and opened the door slowly.

A young delivery boy stood there with a bag of groceries. He looked at Vansh and gave a polite nod.

“Madam? Delivery.”

“Yeah,” Vansh said, voice slightly deeper.

The boy blinked. “Oh... sorry. Bhaiya?”

Vansh nodded.

The boy smiled awkwardly, handed over the bag, and left quickly.

Didn’t even realize I was a guy till I spoke, Vansh thought, heart thudding.

When Vinita returned, she smiled mischievously.

“Get ready. We’re going to the temple.”

“What? Like this?”

“Yes. Dupatta straight. We’re going by foot.”

They walked to the nearby temple, and as they neared the gate, Vinita tugged his hand.

“This way.”

“This is the ladies gate.”

“Yes. You’re with us. The men’s queue is long.”

A security lady eyed Vansh carefully. “ID?”

Vinita slipped her a folded note.

“Chalo chalo,” the guard said, waving them through.

Vansh was mortified.

They did darshan quickly, and on the way back, Vinita said casually, “Didn’t even look odd, you know. You blended right in.”

That evening, they ordered from Swiggy. Vansh helped set the table, served everyone, and then sat again on the floor to eat with his hands.

Once done, he washed all the dishes, wiping them dry with a towel.

Nehal came in as he was finishing. “Tomorrow’s going to be fun.”

“Why?”

“Ma said she’s picked something special.”

Vansh froze.

He changed into his cotton nightgown, removed the bangles with effort, and sat down in front of the mirror.

Vinita came with a small bowl of warm oil.

“Scalp must be sore.”

She parted his hair and massaged slowly. The oil dripped into his roots, and her fingers moved gently across his scalp.

“You did better today,” she said softly.

“It’s exhausting,” he whispered.

“But you didn’t complain.”

After the massage, she tied his hair into a loose braid, and he got into bed.

The fan spun overhead.

He lay there, sore, oiled, and wrapped in pink nightwear.

What could be bigger than today? he wondered.

He was too tired to think. The bangles still left faint dents on his wrists, and the memory of the temple guard’s stare lingered.

As his eyes shut slowly, one thought remained:

What have I gotten myself into?

It was Day 3 of the challenge, but something felt different.
The house was unusually quiet for a Thursday morning. A faint echo of loudspeaker announcements and the thump of dhols filtered in from the road outside. Vansh turned on his side, his oiled braid pressing against the pillow. The braid had loosened slightly during the night, and the jasmine fragrance still lingered.

He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and shuffled toward the hall, still in a long cotton nightgown. His mother, Vinita, was already dressed in a crisp cream saree with a dark red border. She looked radiant and purposeful.

“Maa, what’s happening outside?” he asked groggily.

Vinita looked up with a glint in her eye. “The local party is giving out gold coins to all women of the colony as part of the upcoming elections. They’ve set up a proper stage outside the temple.”

“Oh,” Vansh mumbled. “Okay…”

“And you’re coming with me,” she added, casually folding a dupatta.

He stopped. “Wait… what?”

Vinita smiled, almost too sweetly. “Yes. I thought it’s time. You’ve been walking around the house like Lakshmi. Now you can step outside and be seen like one.”

“But—maa—outside?” he stammered. “People will see me.”

“They’ll see a girl in a saree, that’s all. No one will recognize you. You’ll be fine.”

He stood still, frozen in thought. This wasn’t like being teased by Nehal or serving chai in front of Alka Bai. This was the outside world.

Vinita walked to the bedroom. “Come, it’s a simple saree today. Not silk. No fanfare. We’ll dress you modestly.”

On the bed lay a soft orange cotton saree with a delicate green border, accompanied by a green blouse with small mirror work and a cream cotton petticoat.

Vinita had thought it through.

“No heavy jewelry,” she said, laying out the essentials. “No kajal if you don’t want. Just a bindi, earrings, and a light chain.”

He stepped into the blouse carefully. It was snug but not tight, and the cotton felt cool on his skin. The petticoat came next, and then Vinita started draping the saree.

She pleated slowly, tucking the folds carefully at his waist. The pallu was long and light, pinned gently to the blouse. She adjusted it twice to make sure it stayed secure over his chest.

“For today,” she said softly, “we’ll leave your hair in a loose ponytail.”

“Really?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes. The tight braid will make you sweat in the sun. And it’ll look more relaxed this way.”

She untied his loose braid from the night before, combed his oiled hair gently, and gathered it at the back of his neck. With a soft green ribbon, she tied it into a low ponytail, letting the ends cascade freely down his back.

She stepped back to look at him.

“No anklets. Just the jhumkas and a small bindi.”

Vansh looked at himself in the mirror. It wasn’t shocking anymore. It was... almost normal. The light saree didn’t weigh on him like the silks before. The ponytail gave him space to breathe.

“Ready?” Vinita asked.

He nodded, his bangles clinking faintly.

The Temple Gathering

The narrow road near the temple was full of women—sitting, chatting, laughing in clusters. Some wore sarees, others kurtis and salwars. A small shamiana was set up, with a table and mic in the center. A local MLA’s face beamed down from banners.

Vansh walked beside his mother, heart pounding. His sandals clacked against the pavement. Every sound felt amplified.

“Relax,” Vinita whispered. “No one’s even looking at you.”

He glanced around. She was right.

He looked like any other girl in the gathering.

A lady in her 40s looked at them and smiled. “Didi, your daughter?”

Vinita smiled proudly. “Yes. Just brought her along for the outing.”

The woman nodded. “Very sweet. Looks like she just had her hair oiled.”

Vansh’s ears burned.

As they neared the front, a young woman wearing a party scarf handed out gold-colored envelopes.

Vansh accepted his, bowing slightly. “Thank you.”

The woman didn’t blink. “Next!”

He stepped aside and stood quietly next to Vinita.

For the next half hour, they stayed there, chatting with other women. Nobody questioned him. A few aunties praised his saree color. One even asked what oil he used for such thick hair.

Vinita replied before he could. “Pure jasmine. Twice a week.”

Vansh lowered his eyes, hiding a small smile.

When they returned, Vansh headed straight to the mirror. His ponytail had loosened slightly in the wind. A few strands framed his face. The back of his neck was sticky from sweat.

He sat on the bed and looked at the comb nearby.

“Maa?” he called.

Vinita came in, folding a dupatta.

“Haan, beta?”

He hesitated, fingers brushing his loose hair. “Should I… should I braid it?”

Vinita paused.

“You want to?”

“I don’t know. The ponytail felt… messy. The women outside… all had neat braids or buns.”

She smiled. “And my son noticed hairdos now. Wah.”

“Maa, I’m serious,” he said, cheeks flushed. “It didn’t feel right.”

She sat beside him, handed him the comb, and separated the strands. “Try it.”

He took the sections and began braiding slowly. The process felt awkward at first—hands fumbling, elbows sticking out—but he focused.

Right over center. Left over center. Repeat.

Vinita helped him tighten the end with a black rubber band. She tucked a tiny jasmine pin into the side.

“Perfect,” she whispered.

Wearing the same saree and now with his self-braided hair, Vansh went to fold laundry. Nehal sat cross-legged on the floor, handing him socks and towels.

“Didi, your braid is better than yesterday!” she teased.

“Shhh,” he said, folding a dupatta.

She giggled and rested her chin on her knees. “Maa said next week is bhajan at temple. Are you going like this?”

He looked up. “Maybe…”

Nehal smiled. “Then wear that red saree. And more bangles.”

Vansh didn’t argue.

That night, after dinner, Vinita untied his braid and combed his hair again. She massaged his scalp gently, just like always.

“You did well today,” she said.

“I didn’t think I’d survive,” he replied with a small laugh.

“Next time, we’ll try a temple visit.”

“Maa…”

She winked. “Just a short one.”

He smiled faintly and changed into his soft gown. As he lay down, braid loosely tied for sleep, he stared at the ceiling.

The outing had gone by in a blur.

No one mocked him. No one knew.

And for the first time, he’d felt… normal. Not as a boy in a saree. But just… present.

The fifth morning of Vansh’s saree challenge began earlier than usual. The early rays of sunlight slanted through the cream curtains of Vinita’s room, bathing everything in a golden glow. Outside, the mild hum of temple bells could be heard, mingled with the low call of a vegetable vendor echoing through the lane.

Vansh sat cross-legged on the cotton mat, his long hair still slightly damp from the bath, wrapped in a towel around his shoulders. He was in his night kurti, fidgeting nervously. After yesterday’s surprisingly public coin distribution event, he had expected a relaxed day, maybe a salwar or kurti.

But his mother had other ideas.

Vinita emerged from the wardrobe with a satisfied expression, holding up a rich red saree with a thick gold border. Draped over her arm was a matching royal blue blouse — full-sleeved, high-necked, and neatly pressed.

“Today is important,” she said.

Vansh blinked. “Important for what?”

“For you. This is Day Five. You’re halfway through your challenge,” she said, smiling. “Time to start dressing with full discipline.”

He eyed the saree warily. “It looks too formal.”

She ignored his hesitation. “This blouse is my favorite. You’ll love the way it shapes the shoulders. And you need full sleeves today.”

He didn’t argue. Maybe he was too tired. Maybe some part of him was too used to this now. Slowly, he got up and reached for the blouse, sliding his arms into it. It was cool against his skin but quickly warmed up as it hugged his arms and back.

The sleeves reached down to his wrists, ending in golden piping. The fit was tight — not uncomfortable, but very... firm. He squirmed a little as he fastened the back hooks with his mother’s help.

“Now the petticoat,” she said, handing him the matching red one.

Vansh slipped it on, tying the drawstring snug around his waist. He could already feel the anticipation building in his stomach — he’d worn heavy sarees before, but something about the formal color, the tight blouse, and the early hour made this feel serious.

Vinita unfolded the saree like it was a ceremonial cloth. She knelt down and began pleating it with practiced fingers.

“Lift your arm,” she instructed.

He obeyed. She neatly tucked the pleats into the front of the petticoat, pressed down the pleats to keep them from puffing up, and stood to drape the pallu.

The pallu was long and thick — she pulled it over his shoulder, pleated it again near his bust, and pinned it tightly to the blouse, right over his left chest.

The red and gold looked striking against the royal blue blouse. The contrast was stunning.

He looked down at himself.

“Jewelry,” she said next, opening the wooden box on the dresser.

A thin gold necklace was clasped around his neck. Two medium-sized jhumkas were clipped onto his ears. Then came a dozen glass bangles on each wrist — red and gold — that jingled softly every time he shifted.

Vinita picked up the steel comb next and patted the stool. “Hair.”

Vansh sat down without complaint.

She began parting it — a dead-center parting, firm and sharp. She used the fine edge of the comb and dipped her fingers in jasmine oil again, pressing the sides flat. His eyes fluttered shut as she pulled the comb through slowly, untangling each knot.

Then, with a rhythmic twist, she pulled the thick hair into a tight low bun. She secured it with three black pins, then a net. Over that, she pinned a fresh garland of jasmine — thick and white.

The scent surrounded him like a perfume cloud.

“There,” she said, stepping back. “Stand up.”

Vansh did. The saree shimmered slightly under the light. The full sleeves kept his posture straight. The bun was so tight he couldn’t look side to side without turning his whole neck.

She placed a small maroon bindi between his brows and dusted a bit of compact powder over his nose and cheeks. Then she stood beside him, adjusting the pleats once again, tugging the pallu taut across his chest.

He turned to the mirror.

The reflection startled him.

It wasn’t just the saree or the bun or the jewelry. It was the way everything held together — like he belonged in it.

The figure in the mirror wasn’t a boy being punished.

It looked like a young woman ready to attend a wedding.

Vinita smiled. “Perfect. Vanshika is ready.”

He didn’t speak for a while. The silence settled between them like a third person in the room.

Then finally he murmured, “Maa… this blouse is too tight.”

She laughed softly. “That’s how it’s meant to be.”

He gave her a half-smile. “And the bun?”

She looked at him through the mirror. “It’s holding your head high.”

They walked to the kitchen together. The jhumkas bounced against his jaw. The bangles clinked as he poured tea into steel cups.

By late morning, Vansh was already beginning to feel the constraints of his carefully crafted appearance. The red saree, as grand as it looked, was proving to be difficult to move in. Every pleat, every pinned edge reminded him to walk slower, sit straighter, and keep his back rigid.

And the blouse — his god, the blouse.

The royal blue full-sleeved blouse gripped his arms like a second skin. It restricted even the smallest gestures. He couldn’t fold his arms without discomfort. Raising a hand to fix his hair? Forget it. And yet, that tightness across the chest and shoulders added to the illusion his mother had intended — one of poise, grace, and discipline. But it also made breathing feel like work.

He shuffled into the kitchen where Nehal, his six-year-old sister, was peeling boiled potatoes with comical dedication.

“Don’t mess up the shape,” he said, pouring water from the steel jug into a glass. His bangles clinked loudly with every movement.

Nehal looked up, grinning. “Aunty Vanshika is giving instructions now?”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything. His bun felt too tight to allow eye-rolling.

His mother entered behind him and took the glass from his hand. “Put this back on the tray properly. You’re not here to half-do things.” Her tone was light, but firm.

Vansh nodded and fixed the placement of the tray. As he did, a few droplets of water landed on his pallu. He quickly tried to wipe them, but they left a slightly darker patch on the silk-like red fabric.

“Maa, this pallu is too high,” he muttered, trying to adjust it.

“No, it’s just right,” she responded. “You’re not meant to keep fidgeting. Let the saree carry itself. You’re walking too fast anyway.”

Vansh wanted to scream.

The jasmine garland in his bun released a stronger scent every time he moved his head even slightly. His scalp itched faintly under the weight of the pins. His earrings swayed with even the smallest shift of his neck. And the bangles? They had a mind of their own.

After lunch — which he helped serve with all the awkwardness of someone trying to carry plates without wrinkling a pleated saree — he excused himself and went to his room.

Finally, he sat down.

For the first time in hours, he just… exhaled.

He looked at himself in the mirror on the wardrobe door. The deep red and gold saree still sat perfectly in place. The middle-parted bun looked untouched, with fresh jasmine forming a tight crown around it. His cheeks had developed a soft sheen from the light makeup Vinita had insisted on applying after breakfast.

But his eyes? They looked dull. Bored. Disconnected.

His phone buzzed on the table. A college WhatsApp group chat had 93 unread messages. He didn’t feel like reading any of them. What could he even say? That he was dressed like a Lakshmi calendar model?

The challenge had seemed humorous at first. Playful. Even empowering in an odd way. But now, he was feeling caged — wrapped in nine yards of expectation, literally.

He turned on the fan and immediately regretted it — the pallu began flapping, and he scrambled to pin it tighter. One side of his blouse sleeve had twisted up slightly, and adjusting it through the saree layers was impossible without disrobing half his dignity.

“Maa!” he called out, defeated. “Can I change into a kurti?”

“No,” her voice came from the living room. “That’s not how grace works.”

He clenched his teeth. “I’m not even going outside!”

She didn’t reply.

The ceiling fan whirred above, indifferent to his suffering.

He lay back slowly on the bed, careful not to disturb the bun. Even lying down required adjusting the pallu to one side and placing the braid (from yesterday) carefully over the pillow.

His fingers hovered over his phone. Then, almost impulsively, he opened his messages and tapped on the one person who could laugh with him without judgment.

Vansh: “Bored to death. Rescue me.”
Stuti: “Still alive in that saree prison?”
Vansh: “Wearing red. Blouse tighter than a drum. Bun like concrete. Please say I can come over.”
Stuti: “You’re actually asking to step out like that??”
Vansh: “I’ve lost shame. Just want fresh air and someone who doesn’t call me Lakshmi every five minutes.”
Stuti: “Come over. I’m sending the scooty. But only if you promise to wear those jhumkas proudly.”
Vansh: “Done.”

He didn’t know if he was being brave or foolish.

But he was suffocating. And at this point, even a room with Stuti and her loud laughter felt like oxygen.

Vinita was skeptical at first.

“You’ll go out dressed like this?”

“You told me I have to wear saree the whole day,” he argued.

She raised an eyebrow. “But outside?”

“I’m not ashamed,” he said, not entirely truthfully. “I just want to see a friend.”

She folded her arms, then slowly nodded. “Take a shawl. Be back by 10.”

He threw a light cream shawl over his shoulders, tucked in the pallu, adjusted his pleats one last time, and stepped out.

As he walked down the stairs, Nehal called out behind him: “Aunty Vanshika, don’t forget your purse!”

He sighed but chuckled too.

Maybe it wasn’t all that bad. Maybe he just needed a break — from rules, from pins, from being watched.

And if Stuti could offer that?

Then for one evening, he was all hers.