Read Becoming Her - A New Life :: Chapter 11

Kiran quickly untangled Raj’s arm from around his waist and shifted away. Damn it, how had that even happened? Had Raj pulled him close during the night—or had this body..betrayed him and snuggled closer on its own?

Could he even trust it anymore?

He sighed and got out of bed, making his way to the balcony. The sun had risen fully now, casting a warm glow over the city’s rooftops. He sat down heavily on the wicker chair, elbows on knees, staring out as the morning came alive.

The doorbell rang.

The cook, he realized.

He opened the door, and Vimla stepped in, beaming.

“Didi, you’re looking fresh today,” she said cheerfully.

Kiran scowled. “I’m not paying extra for small talk. Just get to work.”

Vimla’s smile faded. “I was just making conversation, didi,” she said, a little hurt.

“Fine,” Kiran muttered. “Just make chapatis and cauliflower—it’s in the fridge. And some masur dal.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked back to the balcony.

Raj had woken up by then. He yawned and stepped into the kitchen, stretching. “Morning, Vimla. How are you? Why are you pestering your poor didi?”

“I’m fine, bhaiya. But didi’s in a bad mood today,” she said with a half-smile.

Raj raised an eyebrow and followed Kiran to the balcony. “Everything okay?” he asked gently.

“You don’t know?” Kiran shot back, arms crossed. He wasn’t sure who he was angrier at—Raj, or himself.

Raj scratched his head. “Uh... your moods lately?” he said with a hesitant grin.

That only made it worse. Kiran’s scowl deepened.

Raj held up both hands. “Okay, okay—madam, I apologize for whatever it is or was. I surrender.” He gave a quick salute. “To earn back your favour, your humble servant will now make you breakfast. Please stay seated.”

Before Kiran could respond, Raj disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returned with a hot omelette neatly rolled in a chapati.

“Breakfast, madam, at your service,” he declared with a dramatic flourish.

Kiran couldn’t help it—he cracked a smile.

“And where’s my coffee?” he asked, playing along.

“Oops! Coming right up, madam!” Raj darted back to the kitchen.

Kiran let out a soft chuckle. Maybe he couldn’t blame him - even if Raj had pulled him close in his sleep. He probably hadn’t. To Raj, he was his wife. Yet —he’d mostly kept his promise. Maintained his distance. Respected the boundaries.

Kiran appreciated that.

Raj returned with the coffee, and they sat together quietly for a while, sipping in the morning calm.

“By the way,” Raj said after a moment, “do you remember we have to go to your father’s house today? We’ve got to finalize the arrangements for Priya’s engagement tomorrow.”

Kiran nodded. Right. They had to check the venue, remind the decorators and the caterers, and make sure everything was in place.

“I’ll get ready in twenty minutes,” Kiran said with a teasing smile. “What about you?”

Raj grinned. “Before you, madam.”

Kiran chuckled. The old Kiran—the real Kiran—would’ve scoffed and said, No way.

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The day had been a whirlwind. From visiting the engagement venue to chasing down the stage decorator and caterer, Kiran barely had time to breathe. It was nearly 4 p.m. when they finally reached his father’s house.

As soon as they entered, Kiran’s mother fussed over them.

“It took you so long! Did you even eat lunch?”

Before Kiran could respond, Priya jumped in with her own concerns. “Didi, everything okay?”

Kiran dropped onto a chair, utterly spent. “Yes, Priya. All sorted. I gave the decorators instructions down to the last flower—when to shower petals on you and Rohit, which song to play during your entry. Every tiny detail.”

Priya groaned. “Didi, don’t tease me!”

“I’m not teasing,” Kiran laughed. “I just want everything perfect for my baby sister.”

Raj joined in with a grin. “Yes, dear. Your didi could be a wedding designer. She examined the decoration samples like a forensic expert—I thought she’d reject them all.”

“The best for my baby, that’s all,” Kiran said lightly.

Priya hugged him, and Kiran felt a pang of something—strangely bittersweet. She was the same sister in both worlds. And now, she looked up to him the same way… only now, as her elder sister.

Raj broke the moment. “Ma-in-law, I’m starving. Anything to eat?”

“Bringing it, Jamaiji! One minute!” Kiran’s mother called from the kitchen.

“You didn’t have pakoras at the caterer’s?” Kiran asked.

“We were just tasting,” Raj said innocently.

“I tasted one. You ate a full plate.”

“Stop counting my food,” Raj shot back, both of them laughing.

Their mother entered with two steaming plates—chapatis, sabzi, rice, and dal. She paused for a moment, watching the easy laughter between Kiran and Raj. Her face softened. Maybe things were settling down again, she thought.

Just as they were finishing lunch, the mehendi (henna) artist arrived.

Perfect timing,” Priya squealed. “Start with Didi’s hands. Mine will take longer.”

Kiran froze. “No, no—I’ve got a hundred things to do. I can’t afford to sit around with wet henna for hours.”

But his mother and Priya weren’t having it.

“Beta,” his mother insisted gently, “you’re the elder sister. It’ll look odd if you don’t have mehendi. People will talk.”

She turned to the artist. “Something simple, please. Nothing elaborate.”

The artist nodded. “You can take it off in 2–3 hours, Didi.”

Before Kiran could think of a stronger excuse, he found himself seated again, a cushion at his back, both arms stretched out over a pillow as the artist began.

It was like watching someone else being painted.

For the past week, ever since waking in this unfamiliar female body, he’d resisted the world’s constant attempts to mold him into someone he didn’t recognize. But today, as henna spread across his hands, a worrying thought came to him—how long before he stopped resisting? Before he stopped remembering the man he used to be?

The slow, rhythmic movement of the artist’s hand lulled him. His exhaustion caught up with him, and he dozed off.

He awoke to find both hands covered in delicate, swirling designs.

“They turned out so pretty, Didi,” the artist beamed. “You slept like a baby. I haven’t had a more peaceful client.”

She giggled. “And I’ve hidden your husband’s name in the pattern. You can ask him to find it.”

Kiran sighed inwardly. Seriously?

“Arre, at least tell her where you wrote it,” Priya chirped.

The artist pointed to a swirl where ‘Raj’ peeked out, hidden between leaves and curls.

Kiran joined the others in the hall. Raj and their parents were having tea. His mother noticed and stood.

“You must want your evening coffee.”

Kiran nodded instinctively—only to pause. His hands were covered. How was he going to drink it?

“Don’t worry,” Raj said, already getting up. “I’m here for you.”

“Oh-ho! How romantic, Jiju!” Priya teased, phone in hand.

As Raj brought the cup to Kiran’s lips, Priya snapped a photo.

“The most loving couple!”

Kiran rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the faint, reluctant smile that tugged at his lips

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Kiran and Raj entered the house, the key turning with a familiar click. It was nearly 8 p.m., and both of them flopped onto the sofa, drained from the day.

Kiran shifted awkwardly. His henna hadn’t dried completely, and he had to keep his hands raised slightly, careful not to smudge the intricate patterns. Changing clothes would be a challenge.

Raj broke his thoughts. “Should I order dinner from outside?”

Kiran rolled his eyes. “I had Vimla cook in the morning, remember? And are you actually hungry again? We just ate at four.”

“I’m not! I was just planning ahead,” Raj protested, holding up his hands.

“Yeah, sure,” Kiran smirked. “I’m going to change into something comfortable.”

“Oh, I know what that means—your beloved, shapeless nightgown,” Raj groaned dramatically, then laughed.

Kiran chuckled and headed to the bedroom. On a whim, he picked a different gown tonight—silk, lighter and smoother. It clung slightly in places that made him uncomfortable, but he let it be. Changing with hennaed hands was tricky, but he managed. As he stepped back into the hall, Raj whistled.

“Oh my god, you actually changed it! This one looks like a designer version compared to that tragedy you usually wear.”

Kiran laughed, giving a mock twirl—playing along more than he meant to. The ease unnerved him just a little.

The doorbell rang. Raj went to answer—it was the delivery guy, with their outfits for tomorrow.

“Your saree’s here,” Raj called out, “and my sherwani.”

Saree.

Yes, he remembered now—female Kiran had picked out a regal Banarasi saree for the engagement. It was supposed to arrive today, along with the blouse and Raj’s sherwani. He’d managed to avoid wearing one until now—but tomorrow, there would be no avoiding it. Nor the jewellery. Nor the makeup. Nor the parlour visit Priya had booked for both of them.

It felt like swimming against a tide—but the worst part was, the tide was warm and inviting. His body wasn’t resisting. It moved more easily with each step.

“Hey, what are you thinking?” Raj’s voice cut through.

Kiran shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Let’s watch a movie?” Raj offered.

“Okay,” Kiran said, settling onto the sofa.

Raj picked a romantic film. Emotional, tender. Kiran didn’t protest.

As the movie played, Kiran felt a tug—a quiet desire to lean on Raj’s shoulder, to let his fingers find Raj’s hand, to just... rest there.

That scared him.

Suddenly, he stood up.

“What’s wrong?” Raj asked.

“Nothing. Just tired. Let’s eat and sleep early—we’ve got a packed day tomorrow,” Kiran replied, retreating into the kitchen.

He just couldn't trust this body.

Later, in the bedroom, Raj was waiting on the bed.

He turned, eyes sincere. “Hey. I know something’s been off. Since last week, you’ve been… distant. You can talk to me. But if you don’t want to, I get it.”

He paused. “It’s just… this distance is killing me. It’s messing with my head. I can’t take it.”

Kiran froze.

“I’m not talking about sex, don’t get me wrong,” Raj added with a weak laugh. “Just… you sleeping miles away from me, not even brushing against me like I’ve got some contagious disease—that’s what bugs me.”

He studied Kiran’s face, as if searching for clues. “Did I do something wrong? Just tell me. I’ll fix it.”

Kiran’s heart ached with guilt. He reached out and touched Raj’s hand. Raj didn’t deserve to be lied to. But the truth?

“Raj,” he began, “I’m sorry for behaving this way. I... I need to tell you something. It might be hard to explain, but I’ll try.”

Raj looked at Kiran with deep concern.

“Something happened a week ago. I… er… I…” Kiran faltered.

“What is it? Tell me. Is it a health issue? I remember you went to the doctor last Saturday,” Raj broke in, taking Kiran’s face between his palms. “I should’ve known. He told me he’d send the report on WhatsApp, but he didn’t. Tell me what it is,” he asked anxiously.

“It’s not a health issue. I’m fine,” Kiran said quickly.

“Then what is it? Please tell me,” Raj pleaded.

Kiran hesitated. This man loved his wife deeply. That much was clear. He couldn’t bring himself to say the truth—that his wife was gone, and he had taken her place.

“It’s nothing serious,” he lied. “I’ve just been overwhelmed—college stuff, job insecurity. The principal’s been threatening to let me go. It’s gotten to me.”

Raj’s brow furrowed. “Let him sack you then. I earn enough for both of us.” His voice turned sharp with emotion.

Kiran didn’t know how to respond.

Raj misunderstood the silence. “I’m not saying your career doesn’t matter. I just mean—don’t let it come between us.”

He moved closer and took Kiran’s hands in his. “I’m here. For you. Always.”

Kiran felt the walls closing in. He was lying to a man who genuinely loved him—loved the woman he wasn’t.

“I’m just… not myself lately,” he said quietly. “Give me some time.”

“I just want my wife back,” Raj said, kissing Kiran gently on the cheek. “I won’t push you. But I miss you.”

Kiran looked into his eyes—so much love. So much trust.

"Just don't go any further than this,” he whispered.

“Yes, madam,” Raj said brightly.

“And if you cross the line, I swear I’ll kick you—you know exactly where,” Kiran added with a smirk.

Raj laughed and immediately shielded himself. “Noted!”

They both laughed and the sound of their laughter fillied the room.

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That night, Kiran lay on the bed, his body angled slightly away from Raj, back turned, eyes open in the dimness.

Then he felt it—a warm, heavy hand wrap gently around his waist. Raj’s hand. Not demanding, just... there.

Kiran twisted slightly, glancing over his shoulder. Raj was looking at him with a quiet smile, his eyes soft with love and a flicker of hope. Kiran returned a faint smile, then turned back slowly, letting the hand stay.

He lay still for a while, uncertain. But as the silence deepened and the warmth of that hand seeped into his skin, something inside him stirred.

Almost without thinking, he shifted back—just a little—closing the space between them.

A moment passed. Then another.

Raj’s breath deepened, soft snores rising beside him. Kiran closed his eyes, his own breathing falling into rhythm—as sleep gently pulled him in.

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Glossary of Indian Terms used in the chapter

1. Henna – A reddish-brown dye made from the Lawsonia plant, commonly applied in intricate designs on hands and feet during festive or wedding occasions. In India, it’s also known as mehendi.

2. Saree (or Sari) – A traditional Indian garment for women, consisting of a long piece of fabric (usually 5 to 9 yards) that is draped elegantly over the body and paired with a blouse and petticoat.

3. Banarasi Saree– A luxurious and ornate type of saree made in Varanasi (Banaras), often woven with silk and embellished with intricate gold or silver brocade designs. Considered highly formal and suitable for weddings or ceremonial events.

4. Sherwani – A traditional North Indian formal outfit for men, typically worn during weddings and other important occasions. It resembles a long coat and is often made of rich fabrics with detailed embroidery.

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That's the end of Chapter 10. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely.

Thankyou

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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