My Friend, An Aunty

Chapter 1: The Penthouse Refuge

Chennai was alive with its usual rhythm—a blend of bustling markets, traffic snarls, and the constant hum of life. But in a quiet lane off T. Nagar, far from the city’s chaos, stood a modest two-story building. Its terraced penthouse was the home of Vijay Narayan, a 29-year-old software engineer. For Vijay, this apartment was more than a place to live—it was his sanctuary, a haven where he could be himself.

The penthouse was small but comfortable. A compact living room opened into a tidy kitchen, while a narrow hallway led to his bedroom and an attached terrace that offered a panoramic view of the city skyline. Every piece of furniture in the apartment was deliberately chosen—a blend of minimalism and utility. Yet hidden behind this simplicity lay the tools of Vijay’s secret life: an old, locked cupboard in his bedroom that contained neatly folded sarees, ornate blouses, jewelry boxes, and carefully organized makeup kits.

Vijay had been living here for over three years, relishing the privacy it afforded. Below him, in the main part of the building, lived Manikkam, his landlord. Manikkam was a 56-year-old widower with a broad, stocky build and a perpetually serious demeanor. His days were spent maintaining the building, enjoying his daily jasmine tea, or engaging in philosophical debates with his friends at the tea stall down the street. Despite their shared space, Vijay and Manikkam’s interactions were minimal—a brief exchange of smiles or a nod when their paths crossed. Vijay appreciated this detachment; it allowed him to keep his secrets safe.

By day, Vijay was the picture of normalcy—a diligent employee at a leading IT firm in Taramani. His colleagues saw him as quiet but dependable, the kind of person who never drew attention to himself. But by night, when the city fell silent and the world seemed to retreat, Vijay transformed into someone entirely different.

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Chapter 2: A Hidden Passion

Vijay’s fascination with crossdressing began in his teenage years. What started as an innocent curiosity—a childhood game of trying on his mother’s sarees—soon grew into an integral part of his identity. It wasn’t just about the clothes; it was about embodying the grace, warmth, and dignity he saw in the women around him. Over time, his interest evolved, and he found a particular affinity for the persona of a middle-aged South Indian housewife.

He admired their quiet strength, their graceful movements, and the way they carried themselves with a sense of dignity and tradition. To Vijay, becoming one of them—even for a few hours—was a way of escaping his reality and immersing himself in a world where he felt more at peace.

Years of practice had turned Vijay into a master of transformation. His wardrobe included sarees in earthy tones—soft browns, moss greens, and muted maroons—each carefully ironed and folded. He owned a collection of gold-plated jewelry: delicate jhumkas, thin chains, and bangles that clinked softly as he moved. His makeup skills were subtle but effective—a touch of foundation to smooth his skin, kajal to define his eyes, and a muted lipstick that added just the right hint of color.

On weekends, Vijay would lock his door, draw the curtains, and step into this alternate identity. He became an elegant woman in her late 30s, draped in a neatly pleated saree, her hair styled into a tight bun adorned with fresh jasmine. For those hours, Vijay wasn’t a software engineer or a lonely man living in Chennai—he was someone else entirely, someone who felt whole.

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Chapter 3: The Friday Transformation

It was a Friday evening, and Vijay had been looking forward to this moment all week. After logging off from work, he tidied the apartment, setting the stage for his ritual. He took a quick shower, the cool water washing away the stresses of the day, and then opened his wardrobe.

From his collection, he chose a light brown saree with gold motifs and a deep maroon blouse. The blouse was snug, with a low back and short sleeves that accentuated his carefully padded shoulders. He paired it with a simple gold chain and a mangalsutra, adding an air of authenticity to his look.

Vijay took his time with the transformation, savoring each step. He applied his makeup with practiced precision, brushing on just enough foundation to achieve a flawless finish. He lined his eyes with kajal, adding a touch of femininity, and finished with a soft lipstick in a peachy shade. Finally, he secured his wig—a long, natural-looking piece styled into a tight bun—and adorned it with fresh jasmine flowers.

Standing before the mirror, Vijay felt a surge of satisfaction. The reflection staring back at him was no longer that of a young man but a poised, middle-aged woman. He adjusted the pleats of his saree one last time and began moving around the apartment, fully immersed in his role.

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Chapter 4: A Sudden Intrusion

Downstairs, Manikkam was dealing with a plumbing issue. The water pressure in his kitchen sink had dropped, and he suspected a problem with the main valve, which was located on the rooftop near Vijay’s terrace. Deciding to investigate, he climbed the narrow staircase leading to the penthouse.

As he reached the top, he noticed the window to Vijay’s living room was slightly ajar. From inside, he heard faint sounds—the rustle of a saree, the clink of bangles, and the occasional soft shuffle of feet. Puzzled, Manikkam peered through the gap in the window.

What he saw left him speechless.

A woman stood in the living room, adjusting her saree. She moved with a grace that was both deliberate and natural, her figure full and her posture confident. Her hair was styled in a neat bun, and the jasmine in her hair added an unmistakable air of tradition. For a moment, Manikkam wondered if Vijay had a visitor, perhaps a relative or a friend. But as he continued to watch, something felt… off.

The woman seemed too comfortable, too familiar with the space. And then it struck him—the resemblance. Her frame, her movements, her features—they all reminded him of Vijay.

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Chapter 5: The Unmasking

Inside, Vijay was blissfully unaware of the eyes watching him. He moved to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water, the sound of his bangles filling the silence. But just as he raised the glass to his lips, his phone rang.

Startled, Vijay set the glass down and walked over to answer the call.

“Hello?” he said, his deep, masculine voice cutting through the air.

Outside, Manikkam stiffened. The voice didn’t match the image of the woman he was seeing. Shocked, he let out an involuntary gasp.

Vijay froze. Turning toward the window, his eyes locked onto Manikkam’s. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Manikkam’s face was a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and something Vijay couldn’t quite place—judgment? Curiosity? Fear?

Before either of them could react, Manikkam turned and hurried down the stairs, leaving Vijay standing there, his heart pounding in his chest.

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Chapter 6: The Aftermath

As the sound of Manikkam’s retreating footsteps faded, Vijay collapsed onto the sofa, his hands trembling. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and terrified. His carefully constructed world, the one place where he could be himself, had been shattered in an instant.

What would Manikkam do? Would he confront him? Tell others? Ask him to leave? The questions swirled in Vijay’s mind, each one more terrifying than the last.

Downstairs, Manikkam sat in his kitchen, staring blankly at the sink. The image of Vijay in a saree replayed in his mind, challenging everything he thought he knew about his tenant. He felt a strange mix of emotions—shock, curiosity, and an unspoken discomfort.

The night passed in silence for both men, their thoughts consumed by the events of the evening. Vijay knew he couldn’t avoid Manikkam forever, but he dreaded their next encounter. Would it be the end of his refuge, or the beginning of something unexpected?

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Cliffhanger Ending

The story ends with this unresolved tension, leaving readers to wonder: how will Vijay navigate this unmasking? And how will Manikkam reconcile what he has seen? The answers lie in the next chapter, where secrets will either destroy or forge an unlikely bond.

To be continued...

ARC 2 : “ Auntified”

Three months had passed since Vijay’s carefully guarded secret had been exposed, and life had taken a bizarre and oppressive turn. The once peaceful, solitary life in his penthouse was now a distant memory. Vijay found himself living under the roof of Manikkam, his landlord and now self-appointed “husband.” The move wasn’t by choice; it was coerced, a decision born out of desperation and fear. Manikkam had taken photos and videos of Vijay crossdressing that night three months ago and had used them to blackmail him. The ultimatum was clear: move in and assume the role of a traditional South Indian housewife in private, or risk having his secret exposed to the world.

Opening Scene: Vijay Returns Home

It was 5:30 p.m. on a humid Friday evening in Chennai. Vijay parked his bike in the small courtyard of Manikkam’s modest ground-floor house. The ride home had been exhausting, the rush-hour traffic adding to his mounting frustration. But as he removed his helmet and glanced at the house, a familiar dread washed over him. This wasn’t just a house—it was his prison.

Inside, the routine awaited. Vijay walked through the door into his shared living space, a sparse but clean home filled with the scents of sandalwood incense and freshly cooked rice. Without pausing, he made his way to the small room Manikkam had designated as “hers”—a space filled with an old wooden dressing table, a simple steel almirah, and a mirror that had seen better days. Here, Vijay’s transformation would begin.

The Transformation

As if on autopilot, Vijay shed his office clothes—a crisp white shirt and black trousers—and opened the almirah. Inside hung a row of neatly folded sarees, each one handpicked by Manikkam. Today, Vijay chose a soft mustard-colored cotton saree with maroon borders, simple yet elegant. He slipped into a well-fitted maroon blouse, its neckline low enough to mirror the style of a modest yet graceful middle-aged woman.

Carefully, he wrapped the saree around himself, pleating the fabric meticulously before draping the pallu over his shoulder. He adjusted the fall, ensuring the saree hugged his frame just right, accentuating the feminine curves he had created with shapewear and padding.

From a small box on the dressing table, he took out his jewelry: a pair of gold jhumkas, a delicate chain of glass bangles, and the mangalsutra that Manikkam insisted he wear at all times. He slipped on the jewelry with practiced ease, the gold ornaments gleaming under the soft light of the room. Finally, he donned his wig, styled into a low bun that he adorned with a fresh string of jasmine flowers he had picked up on his way home.

Looking at his reflection in the mirror, Vijay sighed. The transformation was flawless. The man who had entered the house minutes ago had disappeared, replaced by the poised, graceful visage of a middle-aged South Indian housewife.

Immersing in the Role

The persona wasn’t just in the clothes; it was in the way Vijay carried himself. His movements became softer, his posture more upright. He went to the kitchen and began preparing the evening meal. As he chopped vegetables and sautéed spices, the faint clinking of his bangles echoed through the quiet house.

By the time the clock struck six, the kitchen was filled with the aroma of sambar and freshly fried appalams. Vijay had set the table with precision: stainless steel plates, tumblers filled with water, and small bowls of chutney and pickles. He finished just as he heard the familiar sputtering of Manikkam’s old scooter pulling into the courtyard.

The Husband’s Return

Manikkam entered the house, his work bag slung over his shoulder, his shirt untucked and creased after a long day. Vijay greeted him at the door, lowering his gaze and offering a faint smile. He handed Manikkam a glass of cool water, his bangles jingling softly as he moved.

“Good evening,” Vijay said in a voice softened to match his appearance.

Manikkam grunted in response, setting his bag down and settling into his chair. He was used to this routine now, a twisted parody of domesticity that he seemed to revel in.

As Vijay served dinner, Manikkam watched him with a faint smirk. “You’ve really gotten the hang of this,” he remarked, his tone laced with condescension. “Sometimes, I almost forget you’re not actually a woman.”

Vijay clenched his jaw but said nothing. He continued serving with mechanical precision, placing each dish before Manikkam and refilling his plate as needed.

The Conversation

As they ate, Manikkam leaned back in his chair, his eyes lingering on Vijay’s carefully adorned figure. “You know,” he said, “you should be grateful. I’ve given you a chance to live the life you seem to enjoy so much. A respectable life, as a housewife. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Vijay looked up briefly, his frustration barely masked. “This isn’t what I wanted,” he replied, his voice quiet but firm. “I didn’t choose this.”

Manikkam chuckled. “Choice or not, you play the role perfectly. And as long as you do, your secret is safe with me.”

Vijay’s Inner Turmoil

After dinner, Manikkam retreated to the living room, leaving Vijay to clear the table and wash the dishes. Standing by the sink, his hands submerged in soapy water, Vijay’s thoughts raced.

How did it come to this? He wondered, staring at his reflection in the window above the sink. The woman staring back at him was an illusion, a mask he wore to survive. Yet, the lines between his reality and his persona had begun to blur, leaving him trapped in a life he couldn’t escape.

As he scrubbed the last plate clean, Vijay made a silent vow. He couldn’t continue living like this. He didn’t know how or when, but he would find a way to reclaim his life, to break free from Manikkam’s control.

Ending the Arc

The evening ended as it always did, with Vijay retreating to his room after finishing his chores. He removed his jewelry, unwound his saree, and stared at the pile of fabric on the bed. The weight of his double life pressed heavily on his chest.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he whispered to himself, “This isn’t over.”

The arc ends with Vijay gazing out of the window into the dark Chennai night, the jasmine flowers in his hair faintly perfuming the air, as the resolve to fight back begins to take root.

To be continued

Arc 3 : Vijay, The Aunty
The next arc begins with Vijay’s life now fully entrenched in the façade of a middle-aged housewife. Three months after the initial arrangement, Vijay has mastered every nuance of the role, from his appearance to his demeanor. Despite the initial resistance, he has grown disturbingly accustomed to the routine, even tolerating Manikkam’s romantic advances with reluctant compliance. Their dynamic has evolved into a twisted version of marital life, with Vijay embodying the quintessential homemaker that Manikkam demands

Scene 1: The Routine of Resignation

The day begins early, as it always does in Manikkam’s household. Vijay wakes to the faint glow of dawn filtering through the lace curtains, the morning air carrying the scent of fresh jasmine from the flowers adorning his low bun. His head feels heavy from wearing the wig overnight, but he doesn’t dare remove it—not when Manikkam likes waking up to the sight of his “wife” fully in character.

Vijay rises quietly from the bed, careful not to disturb Manikkam, who is still asleep. The mattress creaks slightly under his weight, and he freezes for a moment, glancing over his shoulder to ensure Manikkam hasn’t stirred. The older man lies on his side, his arm draped possessively over Vijay’s pillow, a faint smile tugging at his lips even in sleep. The sight sends a shiver down Vijay’s spine, a reminder of the control Manikkam wields over his life.

Slipping out of the bedroom, Vijay ties his saree’s pallu over his shoulder and heads to the kitchen. The house is silent save for the soft ticking of the clock and the distant hum of traffic outside. He begins his morning chores mechanically.
Vijay stands at the stove in the kitchen, dressed immaculately in a soft, handwoven cotton saree of earthy green and beige. The saree clings to his slim, feminized frame, accentuating curves sculpted through months of wearing padded undergarments and corsets. His low-neck blouse fits snugly, the sleeves brushing his elbows, emphasizing his enhanced shoulders and waist.

His face is serene but artificial, masked by perfectly blended makeup. A delicate line of kajal accentuates his almond-shaped eyes, and his lips glisten faintly with muted rose lipstick. His cheeks carry a subtle flush, and the bindi adorning his forehead adds a touch of traditional grace. The gold jhumkas dangling from his ears sway gently as he moves, their faint tinkling blending with the rhythmic clinking of his glass bangles. His wig, styled into a neat low bun, is adorned with fresh jasmine flowers that release a soft, sweet fragrance, completing his transformation into a picture-perfect middle-aged housewife.
Vijay begins boiling water for coffee, lighting the lamp at the small puja corner, and arranging the day’s offerings of fruit and incense. The ritualistic routine has become second nature, a performance he enacts with precision to avoid Manikkam’s displeasure.

The Morning Encounter

As Vijay prepares the first filter coffee of the day, he hears the bedroom door creak open. His heart skips a beat, and he instinctively adjusts the pleats of his saree, ensuring they’re perfectly aligned. A moment later, Manikkam appears in the doorway, his hair tousled and his eyes still heavy with sleep. He’s wearing a simple white vest and lungi, the casual attire doing little to soften his commanding presence.

“Good morning,” Manikkam says, his voice low and rough from sleep. He leans against the doorframe, his gaze lingering on Vijay, who is busy pouring coffee into a stainless steel tumbler. Vijay doesn’t look up, focusing instead on the swirling steam rising from the tumbler.

“Good morning,” Vijay replies softly, his voice tinged with a politeness that barely conceals his discomfort.

Manikkam walks over to the kitchen counter and stands close—too close. Vijay can feel the heat of his presence, the faint scent of sandalwood soap clinging to his skin. Manikkam reaches out and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind Vijay’s ear, his fingers brushing against his cheek. Vijay stiffens at the touch but doesn’t pull away.

“You’re looking beautiful today,” Manikkam says, his tone both appreciative and possessive. “That saree suits you.”

“Thank you,” Vijay murmurs, his eyes fixed on the tumbler in his hand. He feels a lump forming in his throat, but he swallows it down, determined to maintain his composure.

Manikkam takes the tumbler of coffee from Vijay’s hands and sips it slowly, his eyes never leaving Vijay’s face. “Perfect, as always,” he says, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. “You’ve really become the ideal wife, haven’t you?”

Vijay forces a smile and nods, the words cutting deeper than they should. Inside, he feels a storm of conflicting emotions—anger, humiliation, fear—but he knows better than to let any of it show.

A Forced Intimacy

As Vijay begins preparing breakfast, Manikkam moves behind him, his presence looming. Without warning, he places his hands on Vijay’s shoulders and turns him around to face him. Vijay’s heart pounds in his chest as Manikkam’s eyes scan his face, taking in every detail of his carefully applied makeup.

“You’ve outdone yourself today,” Manikkam says, his voice softer now, almost tender. He traces a finger along the edge of Vijay’s jawline, then down to the thin gold chain resting against his collarbone. Vijay flinches slightly at the touch but quickly recovers, forcing himself to stand still.

Manikkam tilts Vijay’s chin upward, his thumb brushing against his cheek. “You know,” he begins, “I never imagined someone like you could transform so completely. It’s almost… magical.”

Vijay doesn’t respond, his mind racing with thoughts of escape, rebellion, anything to break free from this oppressive charade. But he knows the cost of resistance—Manikkam’s threats are always fresh in his mind.

Leaning in closer, Manikkam plants a kiss on Vijay’s forehead, his lips lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Vijay’s body stiffens, but he doesn’t move. Manikkam steps back, his expression one of satisfaction, as if he’s just claimed a prize.

“Finish your work and come to the table,” Manikkam says, his tone returning to its usual authoritative cadence. “I’m hungry.”

Vijay watches him leave the kitchen, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. The moment he’s alone, Vijay exhales shakily, gripping the edge of the counter for support. The jasmine flowers in his hair feel like a weight pressing down on him, a constant reminder of the role he’s been forced to play.

The Breakfast Table

By the time breakfast is ready, Manikkam is seated at the dining table, reading the newspaper. Vijay serves the food—idlis with coconut chutney and sambar—placing each dish in front of Manikkam with practiced efficiency. He moves with the grace and precision of a seasoned homemaker, every gesture deliberate and controlled.

As Manikkam eats, he occasionally glances up at Vijay, who stands nearby, ready to refill his plate or coffee cup at a moment’s notice. The silence between them is heavy, punctuated only by the clinking of utensils against the plate.

“You’ve become very quiet these days,” Manikkam remarks, his tone casual but probing. “I hope you’re not unhappy.”

Vijay hesitates, his hands clutching the edge of his pallu. “No, I’m fine,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Manikkam chuckles, setting down his cup of coffee. “Good. A wife’s happiness is in her husband’s happiness, after all.”

The comment hangs in the air, its implications suffocating. Vijay forces a nod, his eyes fixed on the floor, as Manikkam resumes eating. The rest of the meal passes in strained silence, the weight of their dynamic pressing down on Vijay like a vice.

Aftermath

Once breakfast is over, Vijay clears the table and begins washing the dishes, the sound of running water and clinking steel providing a temporary distraction from his thoughts. The morning sunlight streams through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow on his saree-clad figure, but it feels cold and distant—a stark contrast to the storm raging inside him.

In the living room, Manikkam reclines on the sofa, reading the newspaper. Occasionally, he glances toward the kitchen, a faint smile playing on his lips as he watches Vijay move about the house. To him, this life is perfect—a wife who looks and acts exactly as he desires, a home that runs like clockwork. But to Vijay, it’s a prison, each day blending into the next with no end in sight.

As Vijay finishes his chores, he takes a moment to lean against the kitchen counter, his hands trembling. He closes his eyes, letting out a silent prayer—not for salvation, but for the strength to endure another day.

Scene 2: The Unexpected Visitor
It is an ordinary afternoon, and the house is bathed in a tranquil stillness. Vijay stands at the kitchen counter, slicing vegetables for lunch. The faint aroma of spices lingers in the air, mingling with the subtle floral fragrance of the jasmine in his hair. His saree, a simple yet elegant cotton weave in pastel green with a gold border, sways slightly as he moves, the fabric brushing softly against his skin. The bangles on his wrists jingle faintly with each motion, a sound that has become part of the rhythm of his days.

In the living room, Manikkam is lounging on the sofa, his eyes half-closed as he listens to a devotional song playing from the radio. The scene is deceptively serene, masking the undercurrents of tension and control that define their relationship.

Suddenly, the sound of a firm knock on the front door shatters the stillness. Vijay freezes, the knife slipping from his hand onto the cutting board. His heart skips a beat, the unexpected intrusion jolting him out of his routine. He glances toward Manikkam, who opens his eyes and frowns.

“Go see who it is,” Manikkam orders, his voice sharp and commanding.
Vijay hesitates for a moment, wiping his hands on his pallu before walking toward the door. His bare feet make soft tapping sounds against the tiled floor. With each step, a sense of unease grows within him. He wonders who could be visiting, knowing that anyone from his past discovering his current situation would spell disaster.

Vijay’s mind races as he debates whether to open the door. But before he can decide, Ajith knocks again, louder this time. “Hello? Is anyone home?” he calls out. Gathering his courage, Vijay opens the door partially, keeping himself behind it.

The Encounter

Vijay opens the door cautiously, the hinges creaking slightly. Standing on the threshold is Ajith, his best friend from college. Ajith is dressed in a crisp formal shirt and trousers, a backpack slung over one shoulder. His expression is one of friendly anticipation, but it quickly shifts to confusion as his eyes land on Vijay.

Ajith’s gaze lingers on Vijay for a moment too long. He takes in the sight of the middle-aged “housewife” before him—the neatly draped saree, the modestly designed blouse, the gold chain with the mangalsutra resting against Vijay’s chest, the kajal accentuating his eyes, and the faint blush on his cheeks. The transformation is so complete that Ajith doesn’t recognize his old friend.

Ajith’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight of Vijay, whom he does not recognize in this guise. Mistaking him for someone else, Ajith smiles politely and says, “Vanakkam, aunty. I’m looking for Vijay. Is he home?”

For a moment, Vijay is paralyzed, unsure how to respond. Before he can stammer out an answer, Manikkam’s voice cuts through the silence. “Who is it?” he asks, walking over to the door. Seeing Ajith, his expression hardens for a split second before he puts on a polite façade.

Manikkam steps outside, gently but firmly pushing Vijay behind him. “This is Vijay’s… relative,” he says, his tone dismissive. “What do you need?”

Ajith, puzzled but undeterred, explains his situation. “I’ve come to Chennai for a job interview at Vijay’s company and was hoping to stay with him for a couple of days. We’re best friends; he wouldn’t mind.”

Manikkam’s eyes narrow slightly. “Vijay isn’t here. He had to leave town unexpectedly for a family emergency. I don’t think he’ll be back anytime soon.”

Ajith frowns. “That’s strange. He didn’t mention anything to me last week when we spoke.” Sensing something amiss, he glances toward the house, hoping for a glimpse of Vijay.

Feeling Ajith’s eyes searching, Vijay instinctively retreats further into the shadows, his hands trembling as he clutches the edge of his saree.

Manikkam, noticing Ajith’s persistence, sighs impatiently. “Fine,” he says, pulling out a set of keys from his pocket. “You can stay in the penthouse upstairs. But don’t bother us. My wife is busy, and I have work.”

Ajith, though still suspicious, thanks him and takes the keys. As he heads upstairs, he casts one last glance at the doorway, a flicker of recognition crossing his face before he disappears.

Scene 3: Confrontation

As soon as the door closes, the atmosphere in the house shifts. Manikkam turns to Vijay, his expression dark and menacing. He waits until Ajith’s footsteps fade away before speaking.

“Did you see how close you came to ruining everything?” he hisses, his voice low but venomous. “If he even suspects the truth, your life as you know it will be over.”

Vijay’s hands tremble as he clutches the edge of his pallu. “I didn’t say anything,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

Manikkam steps closer, his face inches from Vijay’s. “Good. Because if you even think about telling him—or anyone else—I’ll make sure those photos and videos go viral. Do you understand?”

Vijay nods, his eyes filling with tears. The weight of Manikkam’s threats presses down on him, suffocating any hope of escape.

“Now, go back to the kitchen,” Manikkam commands, his voice cold and unyielding. “I want lunch ready in thirty minutes.”

Vijay turns and walks back to the kitchen, his footsteps heavy with despair. He resumes chopping vegetables, his hands shaking as he tries to focus on the task at hand. The sound of the knife against the cutting board echoes in the otherwise silent house, a grim reminder of the life he’s trapped in.

Scene 4: Internal Struggles

That evening, Vijay prepares dinner in silence, the sound of sizzling oil and chopping vegetables the only company to his thoughts. The weight of the day’s events presses down on him, the fear of Ajith discovering the truth mingling with the humiliation of Manikkam’s control.

As he stands by the stove, stirring a pot of curry, his reflection in the kitchen window catches his eye. The woman staring back at him is poised, elegant, and composed—a far cry from the man he once was. The sight fills him with a mix of despair and determination. “How did it come to this?” he whispers to himself.

When Manikkam returns home, Vijay greets him at the door with a forced smile, lowering his gaze in a display of submission. The evening unfolds in their usual routine—dinner served with care, a brief conversation about mundane topics, and Manikkam reading the newspaper while Vijay cleans up.

But tonight, as Vijay stands at the sink washing dishes, his hands tremble with more than just exhaustion. The thought of Ajith upstairs, so close yet so far, fills him with a glimmer of hope. “Maybe he’ll notice something,” Vijay thinks. “Maybe he’ll ask the right questions.”

Scene 5: The Seed of Rebellion

Later that night, Vijay lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. The faint hum of the ceiling fan and the distant sound of traffic fill the room, but his mind is consumed with thoughts of escape. For months, he has endured this façade, living as someone he is not. But now, with Ajith’s arrival, a small seed of rebellion takes root in his heart.

The arc ends with Vijay turning to look at the doorway, as if expecting someone to walk through and save him. His expression is a mix of fear and resolve, leaving readers wondering what his next move will be—and whether he will find the courage to fight back against the life he’s been forced to live.

To be continued

Arc 4: Fabricated history

The following morning unfolds with the soft hues of dawn gently illuminating the penthouse. The sunlight spills over the polished floor tiles and casts long shadows across the spacious balcony, where Vijay stands, his mind clouded with uncertainty but his appearance meticulously crafted. He is once again fully dressed in his feminine housewife persona—wearing a pastel-colored saree, the fabric draping gracefully around his body, each fold meticulously arranged to give off the aura of elegance. The saree’s soft color complements his complexion, and it flows gently in the morning breeze, as if to disguise the discomfort he feels beneath it.

His blouse, fitted perfectly to his frame, has a modest yet refined neckline, just low enough to reveal the faintest hint of his collarbones, adding an unspoken sophistication. The traditional mangalsutra, shining in the first light of day, rests against his chest, a symbol of his forced marital role, its weight feeling more like a shackle than a badge of honor. His hair, styled in a neat low bun, is adorned with fresh jasmine flowers, their fragrance mingling with the crisp morning air. Vijay’s hands, gleaming with gold bangles, move in slow, deliberate motions as he hangs clothes on the balcony drying line. The soft sound of fabric brushing against fabric fills the air as he works, his movements flowing with a grace that belies the turmoil beneath.

Vijay’s reflection in the balcony’s glass wall catches his eye for a moment, and he feels an acute sense of disconnection. The woman he sees in the reflection, with her saree and jewelry, looks foreign to him, and yet, she is the version of himself that the world now expects him to be. His every gesture is a careful imitation of what is expected, each moment an attempt to hold onto the image of a traditional, middle-aged housewife. But inside, the façade feels increasingly brittle. His heart pounds as he hangs the last piece of clothing, and just as he thinks he might collapse from the weight of it all, he hears footsteps approaching from behind.

Turning, he sees Ajith emerging from the penthouse door, still in the process of brushing his teeth. His casual demeanor and half-asleep state are a stark contrast to the tension Vijay feels. Ajith notices Vijay on the balcony and waves to him with a friendly smile, not yet fully awake but already radiating an easygoing charm.

“Good morning, aunty!” Ajith calls out, his voice muffled by the toothbrush in his mouth, the casualness of his greeting causing a knot to tighten in Vijay’s stomach.

Vijay is momentarily frozen by the familiarity in Ajith’s tone, but he quickly forces a smile. His heart races as he responds, “Good morning.” He pauses, trying to keep his voice calm, but it trembles slightly.

He watches Ajith’s eyes as they linger on his appearance. The young man scans him from head to toe, his gaze resting on the saree, the blouse, the jewelry. Each look seems to deepen Vijay’s discomfort, as though every detail of his outfit is an affront to his true identity. His pulse quickens, and his palms begin to sweat under the pressure. He forces himself to remain composed, but it’s an effort that grows harder by the second.

Ajith, unaware of the growing unease in Vijay, continues his casual conversation, asking with the same cheerful nonchalance, “So, aunty, how long have you and uncle been married? You guys seem so happy together.” There’s a certain innocence in Ajith’s question, but for Vijay, it feels like an interrogation.

Vijay’s mind races. He wants to tell the truth, to reveal who he really is, but he knows the consequences of doing so—he cannot break free of the lie now. He feels the weight of the fabricated story that Manikkam had planted for him, the role he must play in order to maintain the illusion. His throat tightens, and his voice becomes softer, almost fragile as he responds, “Oh… we’ve been married for many years now, since we were very young. It was an arranged marriage, actually.” He shifts uncomfortably, his eyes darting to the ground. “My husband’s family is from a small town near Madurai… a quiet village. We’ve been together ever since.”

He le’s out a nervous breath, hoping the conversation will shift away from their marriage, but Ajith isn’t finished. His curiosity seems piqued, and he presses further. “Oh, really? A small town near Madurai, huh? That’s interesting. What’s it like there? Must be quite a different world from the city life you have now.”

Vijay feels the trap closing in. The lies are beginning to pile up, each one more fragile than the last. He remembers Manikkam’s words—how he had instructed Vijay to speak about their native town as if it were a faraway, quaint village with old traditions. The story is beginning to feel like a maze with no way out. “Yes,” Vijay replies, his voice thin, “it’s peaceful. Quiet. The village has a charm, an old-world beauty that… well, it’s different from the hustle and bustle of the city.”

Vijay shifts uncomfortably, sensing that Ajith’s gaze is still fixed on him. He can feel Ajith’s eyes following the way his saree flows, the soft curve of his body, the jewelry that jangles lightly with every movement. It all feels out of place. In a panic, Vijay’s mind races for a way to redirect the conversation, desperate to avoid any more questions about the life he’s been forced to live. But Ajith, oblivious to Vijay’s growing discomfort, persists.

“And uncle?” Ajith asks, his eyes narrowing slightly with curiosity. “How did he end up here? Was he always in the city?”

Vijay’s stomach churns at the thought of lying further, but the words spill out before he can stop them. “Yes,” he says, forcing a smile, “He came to the city for work. He found a good job here, and eventually, we settled down here. He’s always been the one in charge of… everything,” he adds, his voice tinged with a mix of respect and resignation. “He works hard. He’s a good man.”

Vijay’s voice trails off, the weight of the lie settling in. He feels trapped, caught in the role he’s been forced to play, and his body tenses as he tries to avoid Ajith’s penetrating gaze.

Ajith, however, doesn’t seem to pick up on the tension. He’s still in a relaxed, almost carefree state, chewing on his toothbrush as if nothing is amiss. He offers a warm smile and says, “It’s nice to see that you’re both so happy. I mean, it’s not every day that you see a couple who has been together for so long. Must be nice.”

Vijay’s heart races, the façade crumbling beneath the weight of Ajith’s words. He wants to break free, to tell Ajith everything, but the fear of discovery looms large. He feels the walls of the penthouse closing in on him, the pressure growing unbearable.

Just as he’s about to step back inside, desperate to retreat, Ajith calls out to him, still not noticing the strain in Vijay’s voice. “Hey, aunty, would you mind if I join you and uncle for breakfast? I think it’d be nice to spend some time together before I head out for the day.”

The words hang In the air, heavy and unnerving. Vijay freezes in place, his heart thudding in his chest. He doesn’t want to continue lying, but he’s also terrified of the consequences if he doesn’t.

Before he can respond, Manikkam’s voice rings out from below, breaking the tension. “ Meena, come inside for breakfast! Ajith, you’re welcome to join too!”

Vijay stands there for a moment, caught between his fear of maintaining the façade and his desire for freedom. The world outside the balcony feels distant, as if he’s trapped in a different reality altogether. As the scene ends, Vijay remains frozen, caught in a silent struggle, unable to decide how much longer he can continue the lie without cracking under the pressure.

To be continued...

Arc 5: The twist

The morning light spills through the windows of the penthouse, casting a soft, golden glow across the tastefully decorated dining room. The quiet hum of the city outside fades into the background as the scene inside the house takes center stage. The kitchen, with its faint smell of freshly brewed filter coffee and sizzling dosai batter on the hot tawa, sets the tone for the morning. Manikkam stands at the center of it all, exuding his usual composed calmness. He has already set the dining table, meticulously arranging the dishes, and now he stands waiting for Ajith to arrive.

A soft knock at the door breaks the silence. With a warm, welcoming smile, Manikkam strides toward the entrance, pulling the door open to reveal Ajith standing on the threshold. He’s dressed casually in a crisp white shirt and jeans, his youthful energy contrasting with Manikkam’s quiet sophistication. Ajith’s eyes are bright with curiosity, and he’s eager to dive into the family dynamics of his best friend’s home.

“Good morning, Ajith! Please come in,” Manikkam greets him, his voice steady, as if this is just another normal day. He steps aside, making room for Ajith to enter.

“Morning, Uncle! Thanks for having me over,” Ajith says with a friendly grin, stepping inside. His eyes immediately scan the interior, appreciating the warmth and elegance of the space. “Looks great in here. You’ve really made this place a home, huh?”

Manikkam chuckles lightly, guiding Ajith toward the dining table. “Yes, we’ve been settled here for some time now. It’s quiet, peaceful… the perfect place for a family to live.”

Ajith nods approvingly as they sit down at the table, which is laden with a traditional South Indian breakfast spread—crispy dosai, golden vadas, steaming sambar, coconut chutney, and a bowl of freshly prepared curd. The scent of the food is comforting, and the atmosphere is relaxed, at least for the moment.

Vijay, now fully dressed in his housewife persona, moves around the kitchen with a practiced grace, every movement a careful act of performance. His saree flows effortlessly around him, the pallu draped neatly over his shoulder, and the gold bangles on his wrist jangle softly as he works. He brings the dishes to the table with the poise of someone who has long adapted to the role. But despite the exterior calm, inside, his heart pounds with anxiety.

He places the dosai and sambar before Ajith, standing quietly at the side of the table. Vijay’s face remains impassive, but his mind races, and he avoids looking directly at Ajith. His pulse quickens with each question he knows is coming. How much longer can he maintain this charade?

Ajith takes a bite of the dosai, savoring the crispness of the batter, and looks up with a smile. “This is really good! Looks like you’ve been well taken care of here, Uncle. Meena aunty is a great cook, huh?”

Vijay feels a tightness in his chest at the mention of his feminine name, but he doesn’t flinch. He remains silent, folding the edges of his saree with careful precision, his gaze never meeting Ajith’s. The calm mask he has worked so hard to maintain remains in place, but the cracks are beginning to show beneath the surface.

Ajith, sensing an opportunity to get to know his best friend’s life better, turns to Manikkam with a casual question. “So, uncle, how did you end up in Chennai? What’s your work like? I’ve always wondered how someone from a small town like you made it in the big city.”

Manikkam responds smoothly, as if this is a question he’s answered countless times. “Well, I moved to Chennai a few years ago for work, like many others. I found a job in the IT sector and settled here. The city’s fast-paced, but it offers opportunities, and after a while, it feels like home.”

Ajith listens intently, clearly fascinated. “That’s pretty cool. And do you have kids? I’ve heard you mention your family, but I didn’t realize you had children. How old are they?”

At this, Vijay’s heart skips a beat. His hands falter for a moment, but he quickly recovers. He continues to place small side dishes—curd, chutney, and sambar—on the table, trying not to give away any sign of his nervousness.

Manikkam answers with his usual calm demeanor, unfazed by the question. “Yes, we have two kids. They’re both studying at boarding school right now—one’s in class 10, the other in class 12. It’s a bit tough, but we try to manage the distance.”

Vijay continues to stand, his hands folding and unfolding nervously, trying to push away the knot of anxiety in his stomach. He watches as Ajith listens, occasionally glancing at him and then back at Manikkam, his face filled with genuine curiosity.

Ajith seems lost in thought for a moment before asking again, “And what about you, uncle? What do you do in your free time? Do you have any hobbies or places you like to visit?”

Manikkam leans back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “I’m not much of a traveler, but I do enjoy a quiet evening at home. I like reading, sometimes even walking around the neighborhood. But honestly, the most important thing is spending time with the family.”

Ajith nods, clearly impressed by his best friend’s lifestyle. “That’s great. You know, I was talking to Meena earlier, and I didn’t realize how much of a homemaker she is. I always thought you two were more… separate, I guess. But it’s nice to see how you two work together.”

At the mention of Vijay’s name, Ajith looks over to him, clearly comfortable now, his tone casual. “So, VIJAY,” he says, his words slow and deliberate, “I didn’t realize you were married to Manikkam. I always thought you were just, you know, the guy I used to hang out with.”

The sentence hangs In the air, the words reverberating through the room with an undeniable impact. For a split second, the world seems to freeze. Manikkam’s face hardens immediately. His hands, which were casually resting on the table, ball into fists beneath the surface. The calm demeanor he has maintained for so long cracks, just for a moment, as his gaze sharpens at Vijay, and then shifts quickly to Ajith. His mouth tightens into a thin line.

Vijay, on the other hand, freezes in place. His breath catches in his throat, his stomach tightening into a knot. His worst fear has just materialized—Ajith has figured it out. The façade is crumbling. His name has slipped out so casually from Ajith’s lips, and with it, all the lies they’ve built come tumbling down.

Ajith, realizing what he has just said, blinks rapidly, his eyes darting between Manikkam and Vijay. The awkwardness in the room thickens instantly, the tension palpable. “I—uh—I didn’t mean it like that,” he stammers, his face flushing with embarrassment.

Vijay remains still, his heart thundering in his chest. He feels like the walls are closing in, suffocating him. His voice catches in his throat, and he can’t bring himself to respond, the weight of the lie too much to bear.

Manikkam, his face now a mask of controlled fury, speaks in a low, steady voice, the calmness belying the storm brewing beneath. “It’s nothing, Ajith. Just a misunderstanding. Where is Vijau..her name Meena..”

The words hang heavy In the air as the room falls into an uncomfortable silence. Vijay doesn’t dare to speak, afraid that any word he says could tear the fragile threads of their constructed life apart. Manikkam looks at him, his eyes full of unspoken warning, his voice flat and controlled.

The scene ends with the three men sitting in strained silence, the once-familiar warmth of the breakfast table now tainted by the revelation, leaving the readers with a sense of unease, as they wonder what will happen next. Did Ajith figure out the full truth? What consequences will this have for Vijay and Manikkam?

To be continued..