“Basanti in Mumbai”

Hari leaned in with a grin. “Need help, Basanti?”
Rohan gave him a deadpan look.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he murmured.
“You want the job, right?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
With a long breath, Rohan picked up the orange panty, turned away, and slid it on. It felt strange already — snug, smooth, unfamiliar.
Then came the bra.
He fumbled a little at first. The elastic straps tangled in his fingers. After a small war with the hooks, he managed to fasten it behind his back. The feeling was alien. It held him in place like a snug chest harness, pressing against his ribs. He could feel its band tighten every time he breathed.
“This is real,” he thought, staring down at his reflection in the locker’s mirror.
He paused before reaching for the skirt — the heart of Basanti’s attire. With slight hesitation and a lot of internal swearing, he stepped into it and pulled it up. It was heavier than it looked, richly embroidered, and flared like a bell. With every shift of his hip, it moved and swayed — so different from jeans or trousers. He felt oddly exposed, even though he was fully covered.
Then came the blouse. As he tied the knots at the back, he noticed the way it clung to his body — tight across the shoulders, a little loose at the chest, hugging the arms. It didn’t hide who he was — it emphasized the contrast.
Hari handed him a small pair of foam pads to tuck inside the bra.
“Just to complete the look,” he winked.
Rohan gave him a death stare but did it anyway.
Then came the dupatta. It was the final layer — draped across his shoulder, flowing down his back. A symbol of femininity. Of softness. Of grace. And yet here he was — a man, breathing awkwardly, standing in front of a mirror, adjusting his fake boobs.
Then the makeup artist walked in.
He said nothing — just motioned for Rohan to sit. As he started, Rohan closed his eyes. He felt the cool brush of powder, the tickle of eyeliner, the careful shaping of his brows. Lipstick, a light pink with gloss. A tiny red bindi placed right between his brows.
When it was over, he looked at himself in the mirror — and froze.
The face staring back at him wasn’t Rohan.
It was... Basanti.
And not just any Basanti — a shy, trembling, nervous version, with long hair, earrings, bangles, and the deep fear of being laughed at. He moved slightly and the anklet chimed. The earrings swayed. He heard his bangles clink when he nervously wiped his palms on the skirt.
He whispered, “Oh god... what am I doing?”
And then — like a switch — he straightened up.
“No. You wanted this. You came here to prove yourself.”