Becoming Her: A Crossdressing Story Blog

By the time Anand woke that morning, the house already felt different, as if it had quietly taken a side while he slept. The sunlight entered without softness, landing directly on the wardrobe and the open shelf beside the mirror, where Divya had reorganized things the previous night with a confidence that allowed no discussion. Her belongings were no longer grouped politely in one corner; they occupied the central space, while his clothes and personal items had been compressed, folded smaller, pushed into secondary positions that did not ask permission. Anand noticed this immediately, and instead of resisting the feeling, he felt a strange tightening in his chest that carried both fear and relief. He stood in front of the mirror longer than usual, studying his reflection with an honesty he had avoided for years, noticing how his body no longer held the sharp readiness it once did. His shoulders seemed softer, his posture less defensive, and even his expression carried a hesitation tha...

Chapter 2 - Permission Is Never Just Permission The debts didn’t come all at once. They came disguised as hope. First, the borewell failed. Not completely—just enough to make us believe the next one would work. The second borewell failed more honestly. By then, hope had already signed papers in my name. Seeds were bought on credit. Fertilizer came with smiles and casual promises after harvest, after harvest. When the harvest failed, the promises stayed, sitting heavy in the air like unfinished sentences. The men from the cooperative bank began coming regularly. They never raised their voices. They never threatened. That made it worse. They sat on my veranda as if it belonged to them, legs crossed, notebooks resting comfortably on their thighs, speaking in calm tones—rainfall, interest rates, government schemes—as though they were discussing weather, not the slow dismantling of my life. I nodded, said *yes* at the right places, offered coffee I could barely afford. Meena watched everyth...

Chapter - 1 Kandamalli Puram Changed First. Then Our House Did.  Kandamalli Puram was not a village where change announced itself loudly. Things shifted there the way seasons did—quietly, without permission, long after people had decided nothing would ever be different. In Kandamalli Puram, memories clung harder than dust. A man’s past mistakes were remembered longer than his children’s names, and debts were spoken of with more seriousness than weddings or funerals. Respect was not measured by how you treated people, but by how much land you could point to when asked who you were. And a woman’s place—her boundaries, her silence, her obedience—were so firmly agreed upon that nobody ever felt the need to explain them out loud. I was born into that certainty.My name was Ramesh. Farmer. Son of a farmer. Husband to Meena. The land behind our house had my father’s sweat in it, my grandfather’s bones somewhere beneath it, and my own pride scattered across its dry stretches. I wore my mous...