Becoming Her

 Anand had always believed that silence was safer than confrontation, but that morning the silence felt deliberate, almost prepared. Divya sat across the dining table, scrolling through her phone, sipping her coffee without looking at him even once. The house felt settled, as if decisions had already been made overnight and the day was merely expected to follow them. Anand waited for her to speak, for instructions, for irritation, for something—but she finished her coffee calmly and finally looked up at him with a steadiness that made his stomach tighten. “I think it’s time we stop pretending,” Divya said, placing the cup down carefully. There was no anger in her voice, no softness either—just certainty. Anand straightened instinctively, already sensing that this was not about chores or clothes or routines. This was about something much deeper, something he had been avoiding since the wedding night. Check of my new series: She Wore the Uniform. I Wore the Saree  She didn’t wai...

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 - 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...

The street outside was warm with mid-morning traffic. Coconut vendors shouted from their carts. A temple bell rang somewhere distant.Divya stood by the bike, key already in hand, helmet strapped tight.Anand, in a soft beige kurta and a cloth bag slung over his shoulder, adjusted the strap of his sandal. He reached out, instinctively, for the bike handle.She glanced at him, not harshly but as if she hadn’t even considered offering. “I’ll ride. You always get distracted in market traffic,” she said, half-smiling.He let go.He sat behind her, arms gently resting, not around her waist but lightly near. She rode fast, precisely. She didn’t ask him which route to take. She didn’t need directions. He stopped trying to give them.They entered the small store tucked between a tailoring shop and a juice center. The usual man was at the counter.“Enna venum, sir?” he asked—looking directly at Divya.Anand blinked, unsure if the man meant it politely or mistakenly.Divya didn’t correct him. She handed ...

For the first time since they were married, a Monday morning didn’t feel rushed. Divya had woken early, dressed in her soft grey cotton kurta, and left with barely a whisper. A single kiss on Anand’s forehead. The way one kisses a sleeping child. He stirred but didn’t open his eyes. The flat felt wider that morning. Slower. Anand walked into the kitchen still in his checked lungi, his hair messily tied with a rubber band he'd picked up from the floor. He hadn’t planned to stay home. But after breakfast, he found himself not logging in. He simply… paused.The office laptop was closed on the corner desk. His phone buzzed with meeting reminders. A voice message from his colleague, Karthik. A polite nudge: “Joining in 15 mins?” He didn’t reply.Instead, Anand looked around the living room, tracing the light that fell diagonally across their bookshelf. Dust had gathered in the corners. A vase held two marigolds that had long dried and curled. Something about the silence between 9 and...

Chapter 2: The Mirror Blurs The apartment was quiet that Tuesday evening. Anand stood in the bathroom, shaving cream spread along his jaw. The mirror had fogged lightly from the hot water tap. As he wiped it clean, he paused there was a tiny red bindi stuck to the corner of the mirror. He smiled faintly.“She must’ve stuck it last week,” he thought, then carefully left it untouched. He took longer to shave that day. Not because of carelessness, but because he was looking at his face, not just grooming it. His chin looked softer than before. His lips, naturally pinker. Maybe he was just noticing himself differently now. He didn’t know why Divya returned late that night. Not too late—but just past their dinner time. She had messaged earlier: “One extra call. Sorry, da.” She entered wearing a kurti and leggings, her laptop bag slung on one shoulder. Her kajal was smudged from the day, her hair messy but tied. She looked busy. Real. Confident.“Did you eat?” she asked, slipping off her sand...

The soft clink of bangles echoed faintly as Divya walked barefoot through the morning light of their small apartment in Mandaveli. Her silk saree from the wedding still hung near the wardrobe, its borders carefully pleated and unused after that one day. Anand, her husband, sat on the edge of the cot, struggling to fix the clasp on his wristwatch.Want help? she asked, tying her wet hair into a bun with a towel.He smiled but shook his head.I’ll manage, he replied, though it took another two minutes.They had been married for less than a month. The early days passed in temple visits, family lunches, and settling small logistics—like who took which shelf, or where to keep her bridal makeup box. Both had jobs, both were tired by night, and yet, they made time for each other with soft gestures. Divya worked at a recruitment firm that had recently promoted her. She didn’t talk much about the role’s details, but Anand knew she handled some senior clients now. Her voice had a certain clarity whe...