Brihannala

By the second week, Arjun's weekdays had acquired a rhythm.
It was not an easy rhythm.
But it was a rhythm.
Every morning, he woke at four.
For ninety minutes, he studied.
Engineering subjects first.
Assignments next.
Whatever required the greatest concentration was always done before the rest of the house woke.
At 5:30, the books were closed.
Then the house belonged to him.
Dusting.
Sweeping.
Mopping.
Laundry.
Washing dishes.
Cleaning the bathrooms.
Folding clothes.
Preparing vegetables.
Cleaning the kitchen.
By now, Arjun had become surprisingly efficient.
He had learned to put one load of clothes into the washing machine while sweeping.
He folded clothes while waiting for something to boil.
He cleaned the kitchen immediately after using it rather than allowing work to accumulate.
What had once taken him hours was gradually becoming manageable.
By seven, the major work was usually finished.
His mother inspected everything.
If something had been missed, she pointed it out.
If everything was satisfactory, she signed his sheet.
Then came his bath.
His prescribed clothing.
The bangles.
Anklets.
Clip-on earrings.
The administrative garment arranged according to the college's instructions.
Breakfast.
College.
Hotel.
Home.
And again.
---
College
The college was perhaps the loneliest part.
Nobody had forgiven him.
But nobody was interested in confronting him every minute either.
Instead, he had become something between a student and a spectacle.
People watched him.
Some whispered.
Some laughed.
Occasionally somebody called out:
"Ussu!"
Or:
"Archana!"
Or another crude variation.
Arjun remembered the HOD's advice.
Don't fight every insult.
So he kept walking.
Sometimes he simply nodded.
Sometimes he said nothing.
He went to class.
He took notes.
He submitted assignments.
He answered questions when professors called on him.
And he studied whenever he had even a few free minutes.
That part of his college life had changed completely.
Arjun had finally understood that he could not afford to waste time.
He had thirteen arrears hanging over him.
On top of those, he still had his current-semester subjects.
The upcoming examination cycle therefore represented nineteen papers that he needed to clear.
Two semesters.
Thirteen arrears.
Current-semester papers.
Nineteen papers in total.
The number frightened him when he first wrote it down.
He stared at the list in his notebook for several minutes.
Then he divided it into subjects.
Then units.
Then chapters.
Then days.
He made a schedule.
Morning study at home.
Revision during college breaks.
Assignments during free periods.
Library whenever a class was cancelled.
Notes while travelling whenever possible.
He even stopped sitting around with other students during long breaks.
If there was an hour between classes, he studied.
If a professor gave the class twenty minutes to complete something, he finished it and used the remaining time to revise.
If he was waiting for a lecturer, he opened his textbook.
He didn't care anymore whether somebody thought he was being antisocial.
He had too much to do.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
The same college where he had once spent enormous amounts of time showing off, wandering around with his friends and treating younger students badly had now become the place where he desperately needed every available minute.
He had already lost enough time.
He couldn't lose any more.
Sometimes a student would walk past and laugh.
"Archana, still studying?"
He would simply reply,
"Yes."
And continue reading.
It was almost as if studying had become another form of resistance.
Not resistance against the punishment.
Resistance against the version of himself that had wasted opportunities.
The name Archana had gradually become normal around him.
At first, hearing it had made him look around.
Then he had begun responding automatically.
"Archana, submit this before lunch."
"Archana, move to the next lab."
"Archana, your attendance."
"Archana, come here."
After a while, he stopped thinking about whether it was his real name.
It was simply the name everyone at college used.
And strangely, the more ordinary it became, the less painful it felt.
---
Prakash tried once.
It happened outside the laboratory.
"Arjun."
Arjun stopped.
Prakash approached him.
"Can we talk?"
Arjun looked around.
"No."
Prakash frowned.
"Why?"
Arjun lowered his voice.
"Don't speak to me here."
"I'm not ashamed of you."
"I know."
"Then why?"
Arjun looked directly at him.
"Because speaking with me here will affect your reputation."
Prakash didn't answer.
Arjun continued.
"If people see you constantly talking to me, they'll connect you with everything that happened."
Prakash tried to interrupt.
"Let them."
"No."
Arjun shook his head.
"You have your future. Don't throw it away because you feel guilty about me."
Prakash stood silently.
Arjun glanced toward the corridor.
"And don't call me Arjun here."
Prakash understood.
Arjun walked away.
"Archana."
He didn't turn around.
Prakash watched him disappear into the crowd.
---
Home
At home, things were even quieter.
Kavitha had almost completely stopped acknowledging him.
She no longer called him Anna.
She didn't ask about his college.
She didn't ask about dance.
She didn't ask about work.
If she needed something, she simply told him.
"Bring me water."
"Put these books there."
"Take this downstairs."
"Give this to Amma."
Arjun did it.
There were no conversations.
He had once thought that the silence would eventually disappear.
It didn't.
Kavitha still carried the image of her brother she had known before everything happened.
To her, he had been arrogant, womanizing and disrespectful toward women.
Now, seeing him dressed differently every day had created another layer of embarrassment in her mind.
She was afraid of what her friends might think.
One evening, Arjun tried again.
"Kavitha..."
She didn't look up from her books.
"What?"
"How was your exam?"
"Fine."
He stood there for a moment.
"I wanted to—"
"Don't."
He stopped.
She finally looked at him.
"If any of my friends find out about all this, they'll think my brother is a transgender person."
Her voice was sharp.
"And they'll make fun of me."
Arjun's face changed.
Kavitha continued.
"So don't come and talk to me in front of anyone."
He nodded.
"Okay."
She returned to her book.
He turned away.
The words had hurt more than he wanted to admit.
He went toward the stairs.
Then stopped.
He looked back at her.
There was a small, almost formal distance between them now.
"Okay, Chinna Amma."
Kavitha looked up.
"What?"
He gave a faint smile.
"Nothing."
He walked away.
The name had a strange meaning in his mouth.
A younger sister whom he now addressed almost like a household authority.
Not because she had asked him to.
But because somewhere inside him, he understood the irony.
For years, she had been expected to behave like the little woman of the house.
Now he was the one carrying out errands for her.
Yet neither of them had fully understood the lesson behind it.
Not yet.
---
The Terrace
There was one place where Arjun could finally be alone.
The terrace.
At one end was a small unused room.
It had been closed for years.
Nobody in the family used it.
It was not visible from the neighboring terraces, and its thick walls kept sound from carrying easily into the house.
Arjun discovered it almost accidentally.
He opened the door.
Dust covered the floor.
There was an old table.
A broken chair.
Nothing else.
He looked around.
Then he smiled.
This could work.
He cleaned it.
He swept the floor.
Moved the old furniture aside.
And created his own little practice room.
Every evening after returning home, finishing his household duties and studying, he went upstairs.
His family assumed he was studying there.
They were pleased that he had found somewhere quiet.
Nobody questioned him.
Nobody came to disturb him.
And so Arjun began practicing Bharatanatyam there.
Alone.
He played the recorded lessons softly.
He stood in the middle of the room.
Position.
Balance.
Mudra.
Footwork.
Again.
Again.
Again.
His teacher's voice echoed in his memory.
"Don't think about how you look."
"Think about the rhythm."
He practiced until his legs trembled.
Then he rested.
Then he practiced again.
Sometimes he made mistakes and laughed at himself.
Sometimes frustration overwhelmed him.
Sometimes he simply stood still, breathing heavily, wondering how his life had become this complicated.
But he continued.
---
Revathi Akka
At the hotel, something else had quietly changed.
Arjun had stopped calling Revathi "aunty."
One evening, she corrected him.
"Why do you keep calling me aunty?"
He smiled.
"Because you're older than me."
"So?"
He hesitated.
Then said:
"Akka."
Revathi smiled.
"That's better."
From then on, she called him thangachi.
Little sister.
"Thangachi, don't lift that."
"Thangachi, eat something."
"Thangachi, your feet are hurting."
"Thangachi, finish your studies."
The words were casual.
But they gave Arjun something he hadn't realized he was missing.
Someone at the hotel saw him as a person.
Not as the boy from the disciplinary committee.
Not as the spoiled son of a wealthy family.
Not as a joke.
Not as "Ussu."
Just as a younger person trying to work and study.
He began calling her Revathi Akka naturally.
And she continued calling him thangachi.
Their relationship became one of the few uncomplicated things in his new life.
---
By the end of the week, Arjun was reaching home at approximately 8:45 every evening.
He would enter quietly.
Eat after completing whatever remained.
Check the next day's clothes.
Prepare his college bag.
Study.
Then climb to the terrace.
Dance.
Come back down.
Sleep.
And at four the next morning, it would begin again.
One morning, while folding freshly washed clothes, Arjun suddenly realized something.
He had completed the entire morning schedule without anyone telling him what to do.
He knew what needed to happen.
He knew when it needed to happen.
He knew how long it would take.
He looked around the clean house.
For years, this work had existed around him like background noise.
Someone had always done it.
His mother.
Kavitha.
The maid.
He had simply benefited from it.
Now he understood how much invisible planning went into making a household function.
He folded the last shirt.
Then placed it neatly in its place.
There was still a long way to go.
He still had anger.
He still had shame.
He still missed his friends.
He still hated being laughed at.
He still had nineteen papers staring back at him from his study plan.
And he still didn't know what would happen when the cultural festival arrived.
But something had changed.
The work was no longer completely foreign to him.
The clothes were no longer completely shocking.
The name Archana no longer made him turn his head.
The hotel was no longer simply a punishment.
And the terrace room was no longer simply an abandoned room.
Each had become part of his life.
He closed the cupboard.
Then looked at the clock.
4:00 a.m. was approaching.
He smiled faintly.
Tomorrow's first task would be studying.
Then the house.
Then college.
Then work.
Then dance.
And he would do it all again.
Not because anyone had convinced him that this was who he was supposed to be.
But because, slowly, he was learning who he could become.