Joy Family

Becoming Jerusha - Joy Family

Part 26: “Ashes to Joy, From Soil to Sky”

It had been a few weeks since feathers flew in the Joys’ grand bedroom. Since dreams of London had settled on Jerusha's freshly glossed lips, like butterflies on soft petals. The summer had melted into golden evenings, the house was now planning a “monsoon wardrobe,” and the new luxury car her father had bought - a deep plum BMW convertible - still had the Just For Our Baby Girl ribbon dangling from the rearview.

But one evening, over a bowl of mango payasam, her father's tone changed.

He cleared his throat, face a blend of mischief and formality.

“Appa has a surprise,” he said, eyes twinkling.

Maria looked up, spoon paused. Jerusha blinked, spoon already halfway in her mouth. “No more cars, Appa,” she giggled. “You’ll run out of colours.”

Stephen laughed. “This is not for you, ma. This is because of you.”

He pulled out a velvet folder from the cabinet. Gold lettering shimmered on the front:

“Jerusha Social Welfare Organisation – Thanjavur”

Jerusha’s spoon dropped. “What…?”

“I started it over a year ago. Bought land, got approvals, built the whole building. You didn’t know because… you were becoming you.”

Maria smiled warmly, her fingers brushing Jerusha’s. “We wanted it to be a gift. A legacy.”

The name on the letterhead glowed - her name.

Still… the word Thanjavur hit like a punch to her chest. The city of scorching sun, dry land, and forgotten abuse.

The air felt tighter. “Appa…” she said softly, “Can’t you name something in Chennai itself?”

Stephen shook his head gently. “This is where people need it, ma. You are the face. It needs your hands to open it. Just once, come with us.”

The Road Back to Forgotten Roads

The journey began two days later.

A satin lavender hoodie dress hugged her body, paired with high-top white sneakers and pink lace anklets. Her platinum chain rested on her clavicle, a mini heart-shaped sling bag bouncing by her hip.

But inside?

A war.

As the Volvo carved through Tamil Nadu’s landscape, each turn unraveled pieces of a life Jerusha had long buried. The trees stood like silent witnesses. The names of towns flashed - some of which she once walked through in cracked sandals as Kathir.

She looked out of the window, trying to focus on the sky, ignoring the dull twist in her gut. “I’m not him. I’m not.”

Stephen noticed her silent lips moving.

He reached back, held her soft fingers with his weathered hand.

Maria played Jerusha’s favourite playlist, the car now filled with K-pop harmonies and the subtle jingle of her daughter’s anklet.

Opening Day – And the Ghosts That Waited

June had just begun. The grand building shimmered in white paint and gold accents. “JERUSHA SOCIAL WELFARE FOUNDATION” was etched on marble in both English and Tamil. Below it, a floral arch curved like a blessing.

Inside, the entire hall buzzed with guests. Cameras. Ribbons. Candles.

And Jerusha?

She wore a pure golden silk saree, stitched with lotus motifs. Hair braided with jasmine. Pearl-drop earrings. Her waist cinched perfectly with a temple-style belt.

Her blouse was fitted. Her walk was slow, like taught by dance.

Every movement of her bangles echoed dignity. She was no longer pretending to be a girl.

She was the daughter of the land.

But just an hour before the event, something cracked.

At the registration table, a loud commotion.

A couple, and two men. Tired, old, hungry - begging for help. “Please madam, we heard there’s welfare help, we don’t have job, no food...”

Jerusha's heart slammed against her ribs.

That voice.

That hunch.

That face.

Her father. Her birth father.

The one who beat Kathir for not killing a snake. The one who threw plates when drunk. The one who called him ‘useless girl-faced thing’.

They hadn’t changed. Still dirty vests, still sunburnt mouths.

They called her madam. Didn't recognize her.

Still, her legs froze.

Sweat bloomed on her upper lip. Her palms grew clammy. She stumbled back, saree pleats crumpling, and hid behind Maria’s shoulder.

Stephen rushed over, holding her by the shoulders.

“What happened?”

Maria looked at the guests. “Come. Inside.”

They pulled her into the staff room. Her breathing shallow.

She whispered: “It’s them. Kathir’s family.”

Both her parents froze.

Maria's hand found her daughter's cheek. “Oh my God…”

Stephen looked stunned. “They didn’t know?”

She shook her head. “They don’t. They just called me ‘madam.’”

Silence.

Finally, Stephen sighed, eyes moist. “Two years ago, we promised you one year. You gave us two. You became our life. But you’re not property. You’re not a project. You're a soul.”

Maria added softly, “We are God’s people, Jerukutty. If your heart tells you otherwise... we’ll support it. Even if it breaks ours.”

She closed her eyes.

What would have Kathir done?

Fled. Taken the money. Found a room in some dark city. Lived invisibly.

But Jerusha?

Her mind now swam in golden frames:

Aishu hugging her during exam results.

Her father brushing her hair while she read.

Maria kissing her foot when she had fever.

Neighbours calling her kutty thangachi.

The pink anklets sounding on church steps.

Every happy memory of her life had Jerusha in it. Not Kathir.

She opened her eyes.

Stood up.

Took a deep breath.

Held both their hands.

“I’m Jerusha. Your daughter. Forever.”

They broke down. Hugged. Wept into her shoulders. No makeup touch-up could fix it now.

The Final Chapter of Kathir

Still wiping tears, Stephen walked back to the couple.

He sat across them, calm.

“You had three sons, didn’t you?”

The man scoffed. “Three, but one vanished. Weak fellow. Soft like a girl. Hope he died somewhere.”

Stephen nodded.

“Well, that weak boy… worked in our company once.”

The family stared, half registering.

“He’s gone now. No trace. Died.”

The mother frowned. “So?”

“I’ll give you 5 lakhs compensation. But you sign here. Legal death certificate. No questions ever again.”

They didn’t hesitate.

They signed.

They even fell at Jerusha’s feet, weeping thanks. “You are God’s angel, Amma…”

Maria was frozen. Stephen’s arm held Jerusha upright.

The same people who cursed her now called her divine.

Jerusha nodded. She handed over the cheque, her manicured fingers still trembling.

As they left, a lightness filled her chest.

For the first time, Kathir was not a memory. He was gone. Officially.

Only Jerusha Joy remained.

Inauguration – A New Dawn

The ribbon was cut.

The photos were taken.

Jerusha's face was everywhere - in banners, in garlands, in people’s hearts.

She stood with her mother in one hand, father in the other, as the giant gold-framed sign above her sparkled:

"Always Joy."

Jerusha smiled.

Not as someone hiding.

But as someone finally born.

Became Jerusha - Joy Family

Part 27: “A House of Memories, a Daughter of Grace”

It was a mid-summer morning in Chennai, the kind of quiet heat that clung not with sweat but with nostalgia. Inside the Joy Villa, sunlight streamed softly through the curtains, casting golden trails across the marble floors that had once echoed with hesitant footsteps and giggles.

Three years had passed since that fateful day in Thanjavur, when Jerusha Anne Joy - born Kathir - had chosen who she truly wanted to be, and sealed the chapter of her old life with unflinching clarity. Completed her Undergraduate degree. Today, she was no longer pretending.

She was Jerusha.

Fully, unquestionably, and beautifully.

The Fading of Two Ghosts

The ghost of Kathir had long since faded - so completely that even in mirrors, the girl who looked back at her had no trace of him. Not in her voice, soft and lilting like a Carnatic note played on a veena. Not in her walk, confident and full of grace. Not in her body, sculpted now by time, care, and love - and no longer just with clothes and prosthetics.

The old Jerusha too - the one who had died a week before her 11th - had slowly blended into her, like one melody resting into the next. The diaries, the photos, the wardrobe, the friends, the memories, the love... she wasn’t just filling the place of a daughter anymore.

She had become her.

The Transformation Beyond the Body

In these past years, Jerusha had learned things about herself that had never been visible in a mirror. She understood now what it meant to be a daughter, a student, a friend, a little princess who had tantrums and playful slaps, who hid behind curtains and eavesdropped just to tease her parents. She became a giver, a nurturer, a gentle storm in the world around her.

As they researched the most advanced reassignment procedures for her, they discovered something revolutionary - techniques not only to feminize the body, but to recreate the entire reproductive system. Ovaries. A uterus. Monthly periods. Even the possibility of pregnancy.

"Appa... is that... even real?" she had once whispered, eyes trembling.

He cupped her cheek like she was made of porcelain.

"My baby girl deserves whatever she dreams. You won't walk halfway, ma. You're going to walk into the full sunrise."

She had cried. Quietly. She was still Jerusha - but now, she was also more. She could dream of being a mother someday. A wife. A woman, completely.

And yes, that was done ...

The Last Days in the House that Built Her

They were leaving India in three days. The flights were booked. Their new house in London, a soft-white three-floor home tucked into a quiet street of South Kensington, was waiting. Her college - a prestigious business school - had already sent her welcome kit. The dream was already written, just waiting for her to walk into it.

But first, they had to say goodbye.

The house - this house - wasn’t just a building. It was a silent witness to her becoming. Five years of memory, of laughter, of tears in bathrooms, of collapsing in her mother’s arms, of first prayers, of first steps in heels, of awkward mirror cries in camisoles, of joyful Christmas mornings in snow-white frocks, of angry storms with Amma over too much coconut oil in her hair, of running into Appa’s arms after school because a boy had pulled her ribbon. The walls knew.

Every room had a memory.

In her wardrobe: her first nighty. Still there, neatly folded.

In the mirror corner: the platinum chain with the small diamond cross that she now never removed. Her identity.

In the kitchen: the old fridge still had stickers she pasted with her little cousins last Diwali.

In the prayer room: a soft white frock still hung from that unforgettable June 1st - when she had cried not from shame, but from peace.

That night, they didn’t sleep in their usual rooms. No one could.

They huddled in the hall - mother, father, daughter. Blankets spread across the tiled floor, half-packed suitcases forming walls around them. Amma had made extra idlis. Appa had brought Rasna from the fridge. They played one final round of antakshari, though none of them cared who won. Jerusha wore an oversized t-shirt and shorts, her legs pulled into her chest, her hair braided like she liked it during travels.

They weren’t sad.

They were full.

“Appa, why am I crying?” she asked, eyes shining.

“Because this isn’t a goodbye. It’s just a thank you,” he said, kissing her forehead.

Farewell to the First Home of Joy

On the final morning, Jerusha stood outside the gate in a lavender hoodie and jeans, the hood barely covering her silky hair, her gold earrings peeking out. She held the house keys in her palm. Her manicured fingers closed around it slowly.

Appa and Amma stood behind her. The driver loaded their final suitcases. The maid, now teary-eyed, handed her a small handmade frame.

Inside it was a photo: her no, Jerusha -with Amma and Appa, taken during her 17th birthday. Pink cake on her nose, Appa's arm around her shoulder, Amma pulling her cheeks.

The words beneath it were handwritten.

“Here she bloomed.”

She hugged the maid, turned, and walked into the car.

The Sky Wasn’t the Limit Anymore

As the plane took off that night, the Chennai skyline faded into lights and clouds. Jerusha looked out the window.

A part of her was still there - in every room, every laugh, every fight. But the girl sitting in seat 3A, wearing pearl earrings and sipping her juice with pink nails tapping her phone, was heading toward a new dawn.

A woman not born but chosen.

Not replacing someone who died, but resurrecting someone who never got to live.

She looked across the aisle.

Her appa was dozing with his head back, mouth slightly open. Her amma was crocheting something in lavender wool.

Jerusha smiled.

She wasn't Kathir. She wasn't the old Jerusha.

She was both their dreams now.

The daughter of Grace.

Always Joy.

Became Jerusha - Joy Family - The final

Part 28: "The Veil, the Vow, and the Eternal Joy"

London never seemed to lose its rain. Even on the morning Jerusha Anne Joy looked out the window of their Notting Hill townhouse, the skies wept faintly, as if offering a poetic curtain to frame the momentousness of the day. Five years had passed since their family moved from Chennai to this cobbled, ivy-wrapped world of foreign streets and newfound laughter. Five years since she'd stood at the threshold of this new Joy Villa and whispered to herself, "Let this be a place I can bloom."

She had.

Oh, how she had.

In these years, Jerusha had flourished. The top of her class. Business school valedictorian. Leader of a women-led social venture that had expanded across continents. Grace in heels, ferocity in boardrooms.

Her appa had retired with a proud tear, handing over all reins to his princess, who signed the papers with her glossy pink nails and a smirk that told the world, "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

Kathir? Who was that?

Even the mirror had forgotten him.

And Then Came Love

Of all the boardrooms and fundraisers and cold British winters, nothing had rattled her quite like love. It didn't arrive in a sports car or a title.

No. He was just a janitor from Madurai. Mohan. Quiet, sweet, observant. He saw her - not as an heiress or a miracle or a girl sculpted out of grief and silk - but just as Jerusha. No questions. No history. Just... her.

She fell. Hard. He caught her gently.

When she told her appa, the drama was hilarious. He almost fainted.

"Janitor-aa?! Inge enakku indha paavam thevaiyaa?"

But by evening, he was researching visa benefits and calling his jeweller.

Love, he knew, wasn’t a transaction. It was the currency they had lived by.

Return to Where It All Began

And now, five years later, Chennai.

The old Joy Villa, now twice as grand. Chandeliers imported from Milan. A garden that bloomed with roses and memories. Today, it wasn't just a house.

It was a temple.

Inside, laughter thundered against the high ceilings. Cousins shrieked. Aunties debated sugar in payasam. Children ran through hallways like echoes of another time. And upstairs, in the bedroom that had once seen a broken boy stare at unfamiliar nighties, stood a woman in white.

A bride.

Jerusha.

The gown was lace and satin, imported from France, hugging her like a second skin. Sleeves of illusion tulle, tiny crystals catching the light like stars frozen in fabric. A corseted waist. A train that trailed behind her like a whispered prayer.

Around her, nieces and sisters-in-law giggled. One placed a tiara, another touched up her peach lipstick.

"You look like an angel," someone whispered.

She didn't respond. She only smiled.

Appa's Funny Betrayal

Outside, her father paced, mock-sobbing. "My daughter betrayed me. I raised her like a princess and she's running away!"

Mother rolled her eyes. "She's not even going anywhere. They’re living in the top floor of our London house."

"Still! Betrayal!"

He dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief embroidered with the word Joy.

But when he walked into her room, and saw her ready... all protests died. He was looking at a dream he once held with trembling hands in a hospital corridor, after losing a daughter.

He held out his hand. "Shall we?"

She placed hers in his. "Always."

The Church Where It Began

Convoy of white vehicles. Bentley in front. Garlands, claps, camera flashes.

And the church. The church.

Where she had once stood in pink net sleeves, crying through prayer. Where she had once been mistaken as the ghost of a girl now reborn.

This time, no tears.

Only joy.

The father walked her down the aisle. Flower girls scattered rose petals like blessings. The crowd turned. Phones clicked. A chorus played.

And at the end of the aisle stood Mohan, eyes filled with disbelief and reverence.

When she reached him, the whole world hushed.

"I do."

"I do."

A kiss.

Cheers erupted. Flower petals rained. Bells echoed.

And Then There Was Only Joy

The celebration that followed was nothing short of magical. Tables of biryani and butter cake. Lights wrapped around trees. Cousins dancing. Aunties sobbing. Uncles drinking. The perfect chaos of a Tamil wedding painted in white.

At one point, her father pulled her aside and said, half angry, half smiling:

"You abandoned me."

"Appa, I live upstairs."

"Still! You belong to another man now!"

She giggled and hugged him. He didn't let go.

Later, when the photo was taken - father, mother, daughter in wedding gown - the camera caught something odd. A streak of light in the top corner, soft and golden, though there were no lights placed above.

They looked at it.

Appa smiled. "Maybe the real Jerusha."

"No," said Amma. "She is the real Jerusha.", kissing her daughter

Always Joy

She was no longer filling a gap.

She had built her own space.

A daughter. A woman. A business leader. A bride. A Joy. A Mother in future.

This wasn’t the end.

This was the happily ever after.

Jerusha Anne Joy.

Always.

Forever.

This is a song that was taught to me in my sunday school, that still heals my heart right from childhood:

I've got the joy, joy, joy, joy
Down in my heart (where?)
Down in my heart (where?)
Down in my heart

I've got the joy, joy, joy, joy
Down in my heart (where?)
Down in my heart to stay

And I'm so happy, so very happy
I've got the love of Jesus in my heart
Down in my heart

And I'm so happy, so very happy
I've got the love of Jesus in my heart

- George William Cooke

Always be Joyous
- From the real me

A Letter to No One - To Kathir

By Jerusha

Dear… no one,

I don’t know who this letter is for. I guess I’m just writing because there’s nowhere else for these thoughts to go. Maybe I’m hoping the wind will carry it, or maybe I’m just whispering into the quiet.

I don’t know what happened to me. I left home with a bag full of broken dreams, angry words, and a promise to never return. I had no one behind me, and the road ahead looked dark. But I walked anyway. Maybe because even pain was better than being invisible in my own house.

There were days in that PG when I didn’t want to wake up. Rats in the walls. Hunger in the belly. I remember watching happy families pass me on the road and wondering how they just… laughed. I never knew how it felt. Until someone called me “Jerusha.”

I don’t understand why they cried when they saw me, or why the way my face looked broke two hearts wide open. Maybe life was playing a joke. But their tears were warm. Their food was warm. Their home was warm. And for the first time in my life, so was I.

I still remember the first time I wore her clothes. I stared at myself in the mirror - not because I looked beautiful, but because I looked like someone who belonged. It scared me. It humiliated me. But it also… held me.

They fed me, hugged me, bought me little things, called me “kutty,” “ma,” “baby.” Words I’d never heard without cruelty. Slowly, my name blurred. My voice softened. My hair grew longer. And I smiled without knowing why.

I didn’t intend for this to happen.

I was just supposed to stay for a night. Maybe a week. Not five years.

Not a lifetime.

Not a wedding in white.

I miss nothing from before. Not the boys who called me slurs. Not the father who called me useless. Not the mother who looked through me. I only miss one thing - the last time someone called me Kathir with kindness. It never happened.

But now I have people who call me their daughter, their joy, their bride.

And yet…

Sometimes at night, when the laughter fades and I wash the makeup off and lie still in the dark, I wonder if he’s still there - Kathir. Somewhere behind the pearls and perfumes and prosthetics. Does he watch from a corner? Does he weep? Or did he finally rest?

Maybe this letter is for him.

Kathir,
You didn’t fail.
You survived.
You took a broken life and made it beautiful in a way no one expected.

Thank you for walking out of that house.
Thank you for not ending it when it got too much.
Thank you for walking into the arms of a family who needed you as much as you needed them.

You aren’t forgotten.
You became someone.
You became Joy.

Love,
The girl you let bloom,
Jerusha

A Letter to No One - To Jerusha

By Jerusha

Dear no one,

Or maybe, dear the wind.
Or the silence.
Or the girl I used to be.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because there are some things too delicate to say out loud. Maybe because when the house is quiet and the makeup’s off and the anklets are on the floor, I’m just… me. Not the daughter, not the student, not the bride. Just a girl in borrowed skin who made it her own.

It’s funny how a name can change your world.

Jerusha Anne Joy.

Once it was just ink on someone else’s papers. A dead girl’s name whispered by grieving parents, painted on doors, sewn into undergarments, and spoken with such love that I didn't have the heart to correct them.

Now it’s my name. My breath. My truth.

But sometimes - just sometimes - I wonder if I’m still her, or if I’ve become something else entirely. Not Kathir. Not the real Jerusha. Just… a memory turned living. A statue given warmth. A lie that bloomed into love.

There are days I laugh so much my stomach aches. My appa tickles me until I cry. My amma fights over lipstick shades and towel hooks. I wear frocks that sparkle, camisoles that hold me, earrings that jingle, skirts that flutter in the breeze. People say I’m glowing. Maybe I am. Because love does that to a person.

But love also terrifies.
Because what if it’s not real?
What if one day the world remembers I wasn’t born this way?

And yet… I don't regret it.
Not the first outfit.
Not the prosthetics.
Not the first selfie as their daughter.
Not the church.
Not even the wedding.

Because I saw them smile. I saw my father tear up walking me down the aisle. I saw my mother beam like she’d birthed me herself. I saw love that asked for nothing but one word—Jerusha.

And I gave it.

With my breath.
With my body.
With my soul.

I may never know who I really was meant to be.
But I know what I chose to be.
Not out of pressure.
Not out of manipulation.
But out of grace.

Because sometimes life doesn't give you what you were born to have—it gives you what you dared to become.

So maybe this letter isn’t to no one.

Maybe it’s to every girl who was told she wasn’t enough,
To every boy who wanted to be something else,
To every spirit who stood between lives and chose light.

Maybe this letter is for me,
on a day when I forget how far I’ve come.

Jerusha wasn’t born.
She was loved into existence.

And love is the only truth I ever needed.

Yours quietly,
Jerusha