The Experiment – Chapter 1

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Saturday Evening: Men Don’t Understand

I walked in halfway through the sentence.

“Men don’t understand these things,” Sheela was saying. “Doesn’t matter how many times we explain.”

Parvathi was leaning against the table, arms folded, amused rather than angry. “That’s true. Vishnu is actually quite considerate. But I also think he just nods along more than he understands.”

I stopped near the doorway. “What do I not understand?”

Parvathi didn’t miss a beat. “You don’t get why this table has to be here, do you?”

I glanced at the table—slightly awkwardly placed near the TV unit. “You wanted it there,” I said. “And you refused to explain last time.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” she replied. “If I have to explain every small thing, I lose all my energy.”

I frowned. “Hey—Sheela, do you know why it’s there?”

Sheela tilted her head, considering. “When you clean behind the TV unit, you need a place to keep the jars off the floor.”

Parvathi smiled, triumphant. “See? A woman can tell right away. You only see where things are placed. You don’t see how everything moves around during the course of our lives.”

“I would’ve known,” I said, a little defensively, “if I had cleaned that area before.”

Parvathi laughed. “By that logic, Sheela must have cleaned here before. No. It’s instinct. You cook often, but you still don’t know where anything is kept.”

“That’s because you buy things and keep moving them around,” I protested.

“You will never get it,” she said, not unkindly.

Sheela stepped in, voice calm, teacherly. “Why do you think that is? I’m sure Vishnu is trying his best. Even my husband—no clue what’s going on in the house.”

Parvathi shrugged. “Maybe it’s genetic.”

I snorted. “That’s a lazy answer. It has to be the role. It can’t just be genes.”

Sheela nodded slowly. “It’s more than duties. Even if you cook every day for a week, your perspective won’t change. My husband volunteers sometimes. At the end of the week, I still have to deal with the mess that week created.”

Parvathi’s eyes lit up—not mischievous, just curious. “Maybe there’s another way to get there. A full role change. Not just taking over tasks. Actually… embodying it.”

Sheela leaned forward. “That’s interesting. But how do you force embodiment?”

Parvathi turned to me then. “Vishnu—what do you think about dressing in a saree?”

The room shifted.

“It would keep reminding you that you’re a woman,” she continued, practical as always. “Not just doing things—being in the role.”

Sheela nodded. “Ah. So the costume anchors the responsibility.”

“Exactly,” Parvathi said. “Let’s dress up Vishnu.”

“Hello,” I said quickly. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

“Of course,” Parvathi replied. “Just once. Academic curiosity. Maybe we’ll prove it really is genetic.”

My stomach tightened.

Oh no.

I had worn her sarees in secret. Carefully. Quietly. When I work from home and Parvathi is at work. I knew I would look nice without much effort, that is why I even kept longer hair and a clean shave. But nothing more.

Now she was asking me—openly.

If I resisted too much, this offer would disappear.

If I agreed too easily, it would raise questions.

I chose hesitation.

“Really?” I said. “The only thing I have going for me is long hair. I’ll look ridiculous. Like a college prank. Not a role—just a joke.”

Sheela laughed. “No way. You’re so slim it’s almost unnatural for a man. Those hips—if I saw you from behind, I wouldn’t assume anything. You’d look beautiful.”

Parvathi smiled, appraising me openly now. “And that face. If your only worry is how you’ll look, we’re fine.”

“What else should I worry about?” I asked.

She studied me. “Honestly? I thought you’d say something irrational just to escape. But this is solvable.”

“I’ll be a good husband without this,” I said, making one last attempt.

She clasped her hands together. “Pretty please?”

I hesitated just long enough to be convincing.

“Fine,” I said. “Do as you wish.”

Sheela clapped softly. “This is going to be fascinating.”

Parvathi was already standing up, decision made.

And just like that, the argument about a table became something else entirely.

Later that night, we went through the motions of intimacy—familiar, routine, the kind that happens because that’s what couples do on a Saturday night. But my mind kept circling back to tomorrow, to the saree waiting in the wardrobe, to the way Parvathi had looked at me when she said “pretty please.”

She noticed. Of course she noticed.

“You’re distracted,” she said, pulling back slightly.

“Sorry,” I said, trying to focus.

We continued, but it felt mechanical, disconnected. Neither of us said anything about it afterward. We just turned to our sides of the bed, the space between us wider than usual.

It had been like this for a while now—not bad, exactly. Just… fine. Comfortable in the way that meant we’d stopped really trying. The kind of fine that you don’t notice until something shifts and makes you look back.

As I lay there in the dark, I wondered if tomorrow’s experiment would change anything.

Or if it would just be another curiosity that faded back into routine.

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