The proposal

The kitchen of their four-bedroom, multi-level bungalow in an expensive, gated neighborhood of Mumbai was stiflingly hot. The heavy monsoon air pressed against the large glass windows, trapping the heat from the six-burner gas stove inside. Arjun stood before the largest burner, stirring a thick, aromatic yellow daal.

He shifted his weight from his right foot to his left. A sharp, familiar ache shot up his calves. He was wearing modest, two-inch block heels. They were sensible by women's standards, but after wearing them since six in the morning while walking across the large marble floors of their massive home, his arches throbbed. Yet, he didn't take them off. The heels forced his hips forward and changed his walk into a gentle, swaying motion that felt entirely right to him.

Every part of his physical appearance was the result of a careful, daily routine. He wore a simple, everyday cotton saree in a soft shade of dark blue, patterned with tiny white dots. The six yards of fabric were pleated in the traditional Nivi style, tucked tightly into his petticoat to highlight a narrow waist. The pallu was draped gracefully over his left shoulder. Beneath the saree, his blouse was tailored tight. The low-cut square neckline showed off his smooth, completely hairless chest. The cups of the blouse were heavily padded, creating a clear, soft bustline that the cotton fabric covered beautifully.

He reached up with a manicured hand—nails filed into ovals and painted with a clear, shiny polish—to wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead. He was very careful not to smudge the heavy makeup he had spent an hour applying that morning. Thick black kohl lined his lower eyelids, making his naturally large brown eyes look wider and softer. Mascara weighed down his eyelashes, and a sharp wing of liquid eyeliner extended past his eyelids. His lips were painted a soft, matte coral color. Right in the center of his forehead sat a perfect, round red bindi. Above it, in the sharp center part of his dark hair, was a bright red streak of sindoor—the undeniable, traditional mark of a married Hindu woman. His hair, grown out carefully over years, was gathered into a heavy, low bun at the back of his neck, secured with black pins.

As he reached for a small container of cumin seeds, the glass bangles stacked on his wrists clinked together. It was a high, musical sound that echoed in the large kitchen. Heavy silver anklets rested cold against his heels, chiming with his every single step, and silver toe rings pinched the skin of his second toes. But the heaviest piece of jewelry he wore was the thick gold mangalsutra resting against the swell of his padded chest. It wasn't just a symbol of a traditional marriage; for Arjun, it was the physical symbol of his deep devotion to Priya. Their marriage was built on deep love and a mutual respect that had allowed him to finally become his true self.

He checked the time on the oven display. Seven-thirty. Priya was late.

A heavy knot of worry sat in Arjun's stomach, even more than his physical tiredness. All afternoon, between hand-washing Priya's delicate work blouses and cutting the vegetables, he had been sitting at the large oak dining table with his laptop. He insisted on doing all the household chores himself, without any maids, because he valued their strict privacy and found a deep, quiet joy in looking after their safe haven. His job, the only financial help he gave to the household, was managing their passive investments and day-trading their savings.

But the stock market had been crashing for six months. The numbers on his screen that afternoon had been a bloodbath. Their portfolio had shrunk by another ten percent in just a single week.

They had a massive home loan on this house. They had two leased luxury cars. They had a lifestyle built on the firm belief that Priya's high-powered corporate salary and his steady market returns would never stop coming.