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Monday: Lakshmi’s Debut

Parvathi woke me gently.

No announcement, no ceremony—just the quiet understanding that today would proceed.

She went to the wardrobe and pulled out a cotton saree, pale green with a thin border. She held it up briefly, then handed it to me.

“You can pick something else if you want,” she said. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

I took it. The fabric was cool, familiar in my hands.

She asked me to try draping it myself. I let the pleats come out uneven, adjusted the pallu once too many times. Parvathi stepped in without comment, straightening a fold, tucking the fabric firmly at my waist.

“Don’t fight it,” she said. “Let it fall.”

When she finished, the saree settled around me properly. As I moved, the fabric responded—brushing my legs, tightening slightly when I turned, loosening when I stood still. It asked for awareness, not effort.

She helped with light makeup next—kajal, lipstick, nothing more. Her fingers were practiced. When she stepped back, she nodded once.

Then she asked, casually, “How will you manage work dressed like this?”

“I’ll just turn off the camera,” I said.

She accepted that immediately.

Inside, I remembered other mornings—this same table, the same laptop—when the camera stayed off and my voice stayed neutral. Parvathi didn’t know those mornings. She didn’t need to.

“I’ll take care of breakfast,” I added. “You get ready.”

She smiled, relieved, and went to change.

In the kitchen, the saree moved with me. When I bent, the pleats tightened just enough to slow me. When I reached up, the fabric shifted at my shoulder. I adjusted without thinking.

Tea. Toast. Something small.

After we ate, Parvathi gathered her things. At the door, I followed her out—something Vishnu would never have bothered with if he were staying back. I handed her the packed lunch, reminded her about the meeting she’d mentioned the night before, wished her a good day. She smiled, a little surprised, then left.

When the door closed, I stood there for a second, listening to her footsteps fade.

Then I went back inside and stopped in front of the full-length mirror.

I checked myself once, twice. Then—quietly—I laughed, lifted the pallu in one hand, turned in a twirl. A small, contained dance, nothing dramatic. Just enough to let the excitement out before it spilled.

I opened the calendar next. Meetings marked in blocks. I moved a few reminders, penciled in breaks—one for lunch, another to finish dinner prep early. There were still a few open hours. Enough time to take care of things. The doorbell rang mid-morning.

Amazon.

Normally, dressed like this, I would have stayed still and silent, let them leave the package outside. I stood there for a moment, heart ticking faster than necessary. Then I walked to the door and opened it.

The delivery boy handed over the parcel. I signed—Lakshmi—thanked him, and heard my voice as it came out. Softer. Feminine. The one I’d practiced alone, carefully, over months. No one else had ever heard it. Not even Parvathi.

He nodded, smiled, left.

I set the package down and exhaled.

After my first meeting, I went back into the kitchen. I tucked the pallu firmly at my waist—the way women do when they’re ready to get things done—and cooked enough for both lunch and dinner. Efficient. Planned.

Lunch was light. I’d always been careful about food—enough to stay energetic, never enough to put on weight. Cardio to stay slim, no heavy lifting to avoid building muscle that would look out of place. Standing there, eating quietly, I realized all of that discipline showed. That was why I looked the way I did.

The hips—those had no explanation. Genetics, maybe.

For a moment, I wished I had real breasts. The thought came and went. I didn’t linger.

I went to the bedroom, opened a drawer Parvathi didn’t know about. A small collection of clip-on earrings—better ones than what Sheela had brought. I tried a few, studied myself, then put them back. Too risky. What if I forgot to switch later?

I wore Sheela’s again.

After another meeting, I looked around the house. When Vishnu dressed up in secret, he’d usually disappear into videos, into isolation. Today felt different. There was a pull toward the house itself.

The floor needed vacuuming. Table needed wiping. Dust clung to the window grills—something we rarely got around to. I started with the vacuum, moving room to room. Thirty minutes, done.

The windows were next. As I wiped them down, I worried briefly about being seen. Then I remembered—I didn’t need to hide. I opened each window fully, working carefully so the saree wouldn’t brush against grime.

In the next building, a man sat reading the newspaper. He looked up, noticed me, raised a hand. I waved back. That was all.

My heart beat faster for a moment. He must be new; I didn’t recognize him. It didn’t matter.

By the time I finished, the light had shifted. I washed my face, refreshed the makeup lightly, retucked the saree so it fell just right. I wanted to look put together when Parvathi came home. Not dressed up—ready.

Monday — Evening (revised, detailed) Parvathi came home tired.

I saw it the moment she stepped inside—the way her shoulders dipped, the way she loosened her grip on her bag before even setting it down. I went to her immediately and took it from her hands before she had to ask.

“Sit,” I said. “I’ve got it.”

She didn’t argue. Instead, she leaned in for a second, resting her forehead lightly against my shoulder, arms coming around me in a brief, unthinking hug. It wasn’t dramatic. Just instinctive. Then she exhaled and pulled back.

“Long day,” she murmured.

“Sit for a minute,” I said again.

She sank into the sofa, shoes kicked off, eyes closed. I hung her bag, straightened it, then turned back just as she opened her eyes and looked around properly. The floor. The table. The way nothing seemed to have a thin layer of dust the way it usually did by evening. She frowned slightly, then smiled.

“You’ve been busy,” she said, half to herself.

I didn’t respond. I was already moving toward the kitchen.

From the sofa, she murmured, almost absentmindedly, “Thank you… I love you.”

The words landed softly, without ceremony.

She went to the restroom to freshen up. I took out dinner, set the plates, reheated everything so it would be just right. When she came back, tying her hair up loosely, she inhaled and smiled again.

“I’m so hungry,” she said. “Thank you for keeping everything ready, my dear wife.”

The words were casual. Almost teasing. But they stayed with me.

We ate together, talking about her day—office politics, someone missing a deadline, an unnecessary meeting that could have been an email. I listened, asked questions, refilled her water.

At one point I mentioned, lightly, “A guy from the next building waved at me while I was cleaning the windows.”

She paused mid-bite, then laughed. “Oh? New neighbor?”

“Must be,” I said. “I didn’t recognize him.”

She shrugged. “Good. Be friendly.”

After dinner, we settled on the couch and watched television together. Nothing important. Something familiar. She leaned into me without thinking about it, head resting against my shoulder, her legs tucked up.

She didn’t notice the windows. It was dark by then anyway. Whatever expectations she’d had for the day, I’d already exceeded them.

When we got ready for bed, she handed me another nightdress—soft, pretty, chosen with intention.

“We’ll need to shop for more,” she said casually. “Sarees I have plenty. Nightdresses—barely enough for both of us for a week.”

I smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll wash them in a couple of days. We won’t run out.”

She looked at me, mock-offended. “Girls need to shop. Why are you taking that away from me?”

I laughed, and she did too.

We went to bed in good spirits. The day had done its work quietly, thoroughly. Being tired together, relaxed together, did something to us. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just… good.

That night felt different from Saturday’s distracted fumbling. We moved together with more presence, more attention. Parvathi seemed more relaxed, and I found myself less anxious, more focused on her. The mechanical distance from before had softened into something warmer—comfortable but present, familiar but engaged.

It wasn’t passionate or earth-shattering. Just… consistently good. Connected. The kind of intimacy that doesn’t announce itself but leaves you both feeling closer when it’s done.

As we settled into sleep, her hand found mine under the covers and stayed there.

Another day, done right.

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