Joy Family

Becoming Jerusha - Joy Family

Part 9: “Her Shadow, My Signature”

The days slipped by without resistance, like pages of a book being turned by wind.

It was now mid-May, the Chennai sun beginning to cast longer, lazier shadows, and the city air smelled faintly of mangoes and dust. Kathir no longer marked time by college days -he had stopped going altogether, except for the occasional examination. That building felt too distant now, like an old shirt kept folded in the bottom drawer - outgrown, unwanted.

His old T-shirts, jeans, and shirts from the PG had long vanished. Some, lost to time and laundry. The rest, quietly set aside, never spoken of again.

In their place: a growing comfort with Jerusha’s homewear - soft tees, cotton joggers, camisoles that hugged lightly, discreetly, and underpants that no longer felt like foreign objects but like part of his new skin.

The platinum cross on his chest had not left his neck since the day it was gifted.

And in the silence of each day, the Joy family became closer - not in loud declarations, but in quiet gestures. Maria brushing lint off his shoulder without asking. Stephen placing a fresh mango slice on his plate with a smile and calling him kutty. And Kathir - still unsure who he was - but sure that here, he was safe.

One particular afternoon, Kathir found himself alone in the house for the first time in weeks.

Maria had a counselling session at the center.

Stephen had a client meeting in Adyar.

“Kanna,” she’d said, lacing up her sandals at the door. “Lock the front if you go out. There’s pasta in the fridge, just reheat. And don’t open for anyone except post.”

He had nodded, one hand clutching a tumbler of chilled rose milk.

And then… they were gone.

For the first time in weeks, stillness wrapped the entire villa.

The central air whispered gently overhead. The curtains swayed slightly in the AC draft. Outside, a koel called twice, and somewhere distant, a pressure cooker whistled.

He wandered aimlessly for a few minutes. Tried switching on the TV, flipped through channels, and turned it off again. Picked up Jerusha’s phone, checked WhatsApp - no new messages.

Then… a strange desire tugged at him.

How big is this house really?

He set off like a curious child.

Today, he wore one of Jerusha’s more colorful outfits - a black cotton T-shirt with silver star prints across the shoulders, paired with baby pink cotton pants that gathered softly at the ankle. Underneath, he wore one of the pink camisoles with a tiny satin bow stitched into the neckline, and a plain black boyshort - now familiar, now fitted. His necklace shimmered softly against the collarbone.

He looked like her, in fragments.

But felt… strangely invisible in this softness. Exposed, but undeniably safe inside these walls.

He began on the ground floor, counting each room aloud to himself.

“Living hall… dining… kitchen… prayer… office room…”

He opened each door and walked in. Stephen’s office was filled with rows of dusty files and shelves of law books, all hard-bound and intimidating. The prayer room was smaller, gentle-smelling of jasmine and camphor. He pressed his palms briefly together in silence.

The first guest room had a full-size bed, untouched and stiff. The second was darker, probably used for storage. He opened cupboards, peeked at extra bed linens, Christmas decorations, unused wedding return gifts.

Then, the master bedroom.

He paused outside the door, heart gently tapping.

But curiosity nudged harder.

Maria and Stephen’s room smelled of sandalwood and powder. The bed was large and carefully made. On the dresser sat Maria’s collection of bangles and bottles of rose perfume. One half-used stick of Lakme kajal rolled near the mirror edge.

Kathir gently picked up a photograph of them - Jerusha in the middle, smiling wide, hair braided with red ribbon. Maria wore a green saree. Stephen in a blazer.

He looked at the girl in the middle.

Looked back at the mirror.

And lowered the photo.

The stairs creaked slightly under his steps as he climbed to the terrace.

The air was warmer here, but breezy. He walked to the back end where, oddly, a cleared rectangular patch of land waited, covered in pale gravel.

He remembered Stephen once mentioning they had plans for a swimming pool here. But not anymore.

He stood there for a few minutes, wind curling through his hair, shirt brushing against his waist.

Back inside, he returned to Jerusha’s room.

He sat cross-legged on the bed and pulled open the lower cupboard drawer.

Inside: Her old diary, wrapped in a cloth pouch.

He opened the first page.

“Jerusha Anne Joy. Sacred Heart School. Std 9.”

The first few pages were about her School routines - who snored in class, which teacher was strict, which crush she had on the senior named Arun.

Later pages were deeper.

“Sometimes I want to scream into my pillow just to hear myself be real.”

“I don’t know what God wants. But I think He’s still listening.”

Kathir closed the book, throat dry.

He moved to the dressing table.

Inside the drawer: a set of unused earrings, a few lip balms, packets of bobby pins, and a broken string of artificial pearls.

The top held an old compact mirror, still with some pink powder.

He looked at himself again.

The camisole strap had peeked out from the T-shirt.

He tucked it back.

Sighed.

And suddenly -

Ding-dong.

He froze.

The doorbell.

His heart flipped.

He turned sharply.

Then relaxed slightly - there was a screen next to Living room showing door camera footage.

A postman.

Carrying a thin brown parcel.

He stood there looking impatient, pressing the bell again.

Kathir swallowed.

He looked down at himself.

The outfit clung slightly at the waist. The pink pants. The necklace. The faint sheen from the afternoon lotion Maria made him apply.

“I’m not Jerusha…” he whispered to himself.

But his feet moved anyway.

He walked to the intercom speaker and pressed it.

“Hello?” he asked, voice light.

The postman squinted. “Ma’am, courier from Flipkart. Please collect.”

Kathir’s mouth went dry.

“I… coming.”

He opened the gate.

The sunlight outside was strong. Too strong.

The postman didn’t blink twice. Just extended the parcel.

“Name?”

He looked at the form.

“Jerusha Anne Joy?”

Kathir looked down.

He took the pen from the clipboard and signed.

Not Kathir.

But Jerusha A. Joy.

Exactly like in the diary.

Exactly like on the school documents.

He had memorized it.

It came out in one smooth stroke.

“Thank you, ma’am,” the postman said politely, stepping back.

Kathir stood in the open door for a few more seconds.

Hair in his eyes.

Camisole strap still slightly peeking.

Parcel in one hand.

Joy stitched into his waistband.

And Joy now written in his own handwriting.

He closed the door slowly.

Something had changed.

Not loudly.

But irreversibly.