Grandmother, Who, Me?

"Grandmother, Who, Me?"

Chapter 2: The First Pallu

Satish’s POV

A few days had passed since the hospital visit. The initial excitement of the pregnancy had settled into a gentle rhythm, but I could feel the undercurrent of Shreya’s quiet longing lingering in our home like the faint scent of jasmine after a pooja.

I was at my usual spot in the corner of the living room that served as my workspace, laptop open, headphones on, fingers tapping away at code for a client’s website. The AC hummed softly, fighting the relentless Trichy humidity that always seemed to win by evening. My body felt light and familiar: slim from years of inconsistent home workouts, clean shaven face, soft Tamil features that Shreya always teased made me look younger than 25.

From the kitchen, I heard the clink of vessels. Shreya was making evening filter coffee. She appeared a moment later, carrying two steel tumblers, her loose maternity salwar kameez swaying gently. She looked radiant, but there was a softness in her eyes, that same wistful look from the hospital.

She handed me a tumbler and sat on the edge of my table, sipping hers. “The doctor said I should rest more,” she said casually, staring into her coffee. “If only I had a mother-in-law to take care of me… scold me for working too much in the parlor, make special soups, rub oil on my back…”

We both laughed.

“Na poi pudusa manufacture than pannanum athuku,” I joked, mimicking a thick village accent. “Order one custom mother-in-law on Amazon. ‘Kind, non-interfering, excellent sambar maker’, five-star rating only.”

Shreya laughed too, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. I saw the sorrow there, brief, hidden quickly behind another smile. That small glimpse twisted something in my chest. We had built a good life. Villa, car, freedom. But some voids no money or love between just the two of us could fill.

That night, after dinner, the thought refused to leave me.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in our bedroom while Shreya was in the bathroom. My reflection stared back, average height, lean build, narrow shoulders, flat chest, and the faint outline of my male underwear visible under my loose home shorts. Nothing particularly feminine. Clean-shaven face with soft jawline, short hair, nothing special.

Let’s cheer her up. Just once. Make her laugh properly.

I opened her cupboard quietly. I pulled out an old, faded cotton saree she rarely wore now, pale yellow with small green flowers. There was also a simple, worn blouse. No padding, no proper inners. I stripped down to my black male underwear and awkwardly began the process.

First, the blouse. It was too tight across my flat chest. I buttoned it anyway, the hooks straining. Then the petticoat, I tied it clumsily around my waist, the knot lopsided. The saree was the real struggle. I had seen Shreya drape it hundreds of times, but doing it myself was comedy gold. Pleats went everywhere. The pallu kept slipping off my shoulder. I tucked it roughly and looked at myself.

I looked ridiculous.

A skinny guy in a badly draped saree, male underwear peeking out at the bottom, flat chest in a woman’s blouse, and a comically serious expression. The pallu hung crooked. The fabric felt strange against my skin, cool at first, then clinging as nervous sweat started forming.

Perfect. This will make her laugh.

I adjusted the pallu one last time, took a deep breath, and walked into the living room with exaggerated swaying hips and a stern face.

Shreya was sitting on the sofa, scrolling on her phone. She looked up.

Silence for two full seconds.

Then she exploded into laughter, clutching her stomach.

“Aiyo Satish! What is this?! You look like a comedy amma from the old movies!”

I put on my best stern mother-in-law voice, high-pitched and scolding. “Enna ma! Look at you sitting like a rani! In my time, daughters-in-law worked from morning till night! No phones! Only kitchen and husband’s happiness!”

I waddled over (the saree made normal walking impossible) and pretended to inspect her. “Too thin! Eat properly! And what is this salwar? Wear a proper saree like a good girl!”

Shreya was in tears from laughing. She pulled me down beside her. “You idiot… you actually look kind of cute. In a very wrong way.”

The mood lightened completely. I served her the night milk I had warmed earlier, playing the fussy mother-in-law the whole time, adjusting her pallu (even though she wasn’t wearing one), scolding her for posture, dramatically tasting the milk first “to check if it’s poisoned by daughter-in-law.”

We laughed until our stomachs hurt. For the first time in days, her eyes sparkled with pure joy.

Later, in bed, the laughter slowly faded into something softer. The saree was long discarded on the chair, but I still wore the blouse and petticoat underneath my shorts out of laziness. Shreya pulled me close, her hands roaming curiously over the strange layers.

“You really did this just to make me smile,” she whispered, kissing me deeply. Her fingers traced the edge of the blouse. “I love my mother-in-law already.”

The night turned intimate. Her touches were playful at first, then hungry. She treated the padded chest and the awkward feminine clothes with teasing affection. We made love slowly, passionately, her calling me “Amma” once or twice in jest between moans. It felt silly, ridiculous… and strangely exciting.

As we lay tangled afterwards, Shreya resting her head on my chest, she murmured sleepily, “I love my mother-in-law…”

I smiled in the dark, feeling the ridiculous blouse still on my body.

Just one silly night. Nothing more.