Grandmother, Who, Me?

Grandmother, Who, Me?

Chapter 16: The Albums of a Life That Never Happened

Lakshmi’s POV (Satish)

The guest room was dark except for the thin strip of moonlight that slipped through the half-closed curtains. I lay on my side in the same heavy silk saree I had worn to the temple, the fabric now wrinkled and warm from my body heat. The thali rested heavily between my breasts, the pendant pressing into the soft skin with every breath. The tight toe rings still bit into my flesh even while I was lying still. The anklets made the faintest metallic sound whenever I shifted my legs.

Rajan was already asleep.

We had not spoken a single word after Shreya locked the door. He had simply removed his shirt, lain down on one side of the bed in his vest and veshti, and closed his eyes like a man who had done this for twenty years. Within minutes his breathing had become deep and even.

I stayed as far to my side of the mattress as the narrow bed allowed. Sleep refused to come.

Sometime after midnight he turned in his sleep and, without waking, pulled me against him. Face to face. His arm locked firmly around my soft waist. My heavy breasts were crushed against his chest. My face ended up pressed near the hollow of his underarm.

The smell hit me immediately, strong, masculine, warm musk mixed with the faint scent of the soap Jessica had given him and the natural odor of a man who had spent years under the sun. It filled my nose with every breath. There was nothing feminine about it. It was the smell of a husband.

I could not move. The silk saree was trapped between our bodies, the stiff zari borders digging into my skin. His hold tightened whenever I tried to ease away. The locked cage between my legs pressed uselessly against his thigh. My new vagina, soft and sensitive, felt the heat of his body through the layers of cloth.

I lay awake the entire night counting every second, every breath, every small adjustment of his arm. The sensations of the saree, the way it clung where I had sweated, the way the blouse cut into the soft flesh under my arms, the constant weight of the thali, mixed with the overwhelming presence of a man’s body against mine. By the time the first grey light of dawn appeared, my eyes burned with exhaustion.

Just before sunrise he released me and rolled onto his back without waking. I slipped out of bed immediately.

Standing in the bathroom, I lifted the pallu and the blouse and smelled my own skin.

There was no trace of the man I used to be.

Only a soft, warm, distinctly feminine scent, rose talc, light sweat, the faint musk of the body Jessica had given me, and the lingering smell of the silk. Even my underarms, once sharp and male, now carried only that milder, mature womanly odor.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror until the first birds began calling outside.

By afternoon the house felt different.

Two large cardboard parcels had arrived from Jessica’s contacts. Shreya opened them on the living-room floor with almost childlike excitement. Inside were thick plastic folders of brand-new government identity cards, Aadhaar, PAN, voter ID, all bearing the name Lakshmi Rajan, age 45, wife of Rajan, mother of Satish. There were bank documents, a marriage certificate dated twenty-two years earlier, and property papers that quietly transferred portions of our villa into the names of the new “parents.”

But the albums were what made my stomach drop.

There were four of them, heavy and bound in fake leather that already looked aged. Shreya spread them open one by one on the coffee table.

The first album was our wedding. Young Lakshmi and young Rajan exchanging garlands, the thali being tied, the two of us sitting on the ceremonial swing. The faces were perfect. The clothes, the jewellery, the background, everything looked completely original, as if the photographs had been taken decades ago and carefully preserved.

The second album was filled with a child’s life. Baby Satish on Lakshmi’s lap. Toddler Satish holding her finger while walking. School functions, temple visits, birthday cakes. In every photo I was the mother smiling, slightly tired, wearing simple sarees, the same thali always visible at my neck.

The third album was the most recent. It showed the marriage of “our son” Satish to Shreya. I appeared in almost every frame as the mother-in-law,blessing the couple, applying kumkum, standing proudly beside the bride and groom. In one large photograph the young Satish (the original me) stood between his mother (also me) and his new wife. Two versions of the same face looked back at the camera.

Shreya turned the pages slowly, her eyes shining.

“They look so real, Attai,” she whispered. “Jessica did an incredible job. No one will ever question it.”

I picked up the marriage album of “my son” and stared at the large group photograph. There I was, twice. Once as the young bridegroom, once as the ageing mother-in-law standing protectively behind him.

The weight of the thali against my chest suddenly felt unbearable. The silk saree seemed tighter. The toe rings cut deeper.

Damn… what was I getting into?

I closed the album carefully and set it back on the table. Outside, a neighbour’s child was laughing. Inside our living room, an entire false lifetime had just been delivered in cardboard boxes, and my wife was smiling as if we had finally become whole.

I sat very still on the sofa, the anklets silent for once, and tried to remember the sound of my old voice.

It was already growing distant.