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Part 1
Chapter 1: The Invitation
It started with a shared calendar reminder: “Saturday – Dinner Party – Our Place 🏡🍛.”
Pramod and Devika had planned to invite their colleagues over for an evening of laughter, food, and connection. It had been months since either had hosted anything. They were excited—Devika even started curating a playlist, while Pramod jotted down a menu.
But just two days before the event, Devika caught a stubborn viral fever. Her eyes burned, her body ached, and even standing felt like a struggle.
“Let’s cancel,” Pramod said, kneeling beside her on the couch.
“No,” she replied, hoarse but adamant. “We’ll manage.”
“You need rest. We’ll order from outside.”
“That’s cheating,” she smiled faintly. “Home is heart. Food is identity.”
Pramod hesitated. “What if I cook?”
Devika blinked. Then smirked. “Only if you become me for a day. I allow only women in my kitchen before a party.”
He laughed. “Then bring me a saree.”
Part 2
Chapter 2: Becoming Pramodini
It began as a joke.
Devika, half-feverish but mischievous, draped a mustard cotton saree on Pramod, tied her black curly wig over his head, added a bindi, some kajal, a hint of blush. The transformation was… stunning.
“You look better than I ever did on Durga Puja,” she said.
He stared at the mirror, amused, then curiously still.
“I’ll call you Pramodini,” she giggled. “My shy, graceful cousin from Berhampur.”
In character, Pramodini cooked with care—chopping onions with rhythm, stirring gravies like art. Something strange yet soothing settled in Pramod. The saree didn’t feel like a costume. It felt… right.
Before he could change, guests started arriving.
Devika took charge. “Meet Pramodini, my cousin. She’s been staying with us and helped me today. Pramod got stuck in last-minute edits.”
Everyone bought the story—especially Raghu, Devika’s flirtatious colleague who couldn’t take his eyes off the elegant woman serving chhena poda and lemonade with a shy smile.
“You have Rekha’s eyes,” he said to Pramodini.
Pramod laughed silently inside. Devika winked across the room.
That night, Pramodini didn’t speak much. But she was noticed, admired. The evening ended with compliments to the chef and a rose from Raghu to “the lady with golden hands.”
Part 3
Chapter 3: The Mirror Between Us
Days passed. One Sunday, Devika woke up to the sound of bangles clinking in the kitchen. She followed the sound and froze. There stood Pramod—in a saree, chopping vegetables, hair neatly tied back.
He turned. “I couldn’t sleep. I… just felt like it.”
Devika walked in, slowly. “You missed her, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “When I wore her once… I think I unlocked something I’ve always suppressed. She’s not just a character. She’s… me.”
Devika didn’t speak for a moment. Then she picked up a knife, stood beside him, and said, “Then let’s cook together. Saheli-style.”
What started as Sundays in the kitchen turned into evenings on the terrace, both in sarees, talking about life, work, and silly things. They shared lipstick, swapped earrings, debated over blouse designs.
Pramod’s confidence grew. As Pramodini, he moved differently. He smiled more. He danced without stiffness. He laughed with ease.
They even started going out—to the outskirts for coffee, to old bookstores, to saree haats during weekends. Devika introduced her as a cousin from Rourkela. No one suspected. They looked like two loving sisters walking hand-in-hand through the markets.
Raghu, however, kept sending occasional messages to Devika asking about “that beautiful cousin.”
Devika laughed. “You really want her number?”
“Desperately.”
“She prefers women,” Devika replied, and shut that door forever.
Part 4
Chapter 4: The Unspoken Truth
They never formally spoke of labels—Pramod never said “I’m this” or “I’m that.” Devika never asked him to. It wasn’t about being a man or a woman. It wasn’t about orientation. It was about expression. About freedom. About trust.
And above all—about friendship.
“I never thought I’d be sharing sarees with my husband,” Devika once said as she fixed his pallu.
“And I never thought I’d feel more me in your clothes than my own,” he replied.
They were no longer just a husband and wife. They had become sahelis—soul sisters in love.
The sun rises over Bhubaneswar.
On the balcony, two women sit in soft sarees—one in peach, the other in turquoise. Hair braided, bangles jingling, they sip tea, legs curled up, laughter echoing softly.
“Do you think the world will ever understand us?” Pramodini asks.
Devika smiles. “Maybe not. But I do. And that’s enough.”
They clink their tea cups gently.
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