Chapter 4 – Soft Words at the Gate
The afternoon heat sat heavy on the lane. Cicadas drilled from the jackfruit tree across the wall. Surya stood just inside the gate in a simple cotton salwar-kameez Meera had pulled from Lavanya’s old cupboard—pale pink, slightly too long in the sleeves.
Rajesh, the society manager for the small lane of houses, a man in his early thirties who collected maintenance and knew everyone’s business, appeared without warning. He had never actually met the real Lavanya — she had already been in Russia for years by the time he took the job — but he had heard Meera speak of her often enough. His shirt stuck to his chest in dark patches. He smelled of cheap cologne.
“Lavanya,” he said, stopping close enough that Surya could see the small scar above his left eyebrow. “You’re looking better every day. Colour in the cheeks. Soft.” His eyes moved down and up again, lingering. “Coffee sometime? There’s a place near the boat jetty. Quiet. You must be bored staying at home.”
Surya’s fingers tightened around the edge of his sleeve. His heart had started racing. For a moment he was terrified that Rajesh would notice something wrong — the shape under the salwar, the way his voice sat, anything. He kept his gaze lowered, the way Lavanya would, and answered a little too quickly.
“I’m still tired, Rajesh. Amma needs me.”
Rajesh smiled.
“Of course.”
He didn't leave immediately.
His eyes moved briefly toward the house, then back to Surya.
“You've changed since you came back.”
Surya's fingers tightened around his sleeve.
“How?”
Rajesh shrugged.
“I don't know. Your voice. The way you carry yourself. Everything.”
He smiled again.
“Maybe Russia changed you.”
Surya forced a small laugh.
“Maybe.”
Rajesh finally stepped back.
“Still, I'd like that coffee.”
“I'm not promising.”
“That's all right.”
He started toward his scooter, then turned once more.
“I'll ask again.”
Surya watched him leave.
The attention did not feel flattering. It felt dangerous—like a test he could fail without warning.
“Just one coffee.” Rajesh smiled wider, teeth a little uneven. “I’ll bring you back before dark. Promise.”
From the veranda Meera’s voice carried, bright with sudden interest. “Rajesh is a good boy, Lavanya. Steady job. You should go. Fresh air is good after so many days inside.”
Surya felt the heat climb higher on his neck. He murmured something polite and stepped back into the shade of the house. Rajesh stayed at the gate a moment longer, still smiling, before the scooter coughed to life and rolled away down the lane.
Inside, Meera was already planning. She sat on the cot with a small notebook, the kind she used for temple accounts, and began listing names. “There is the engineer’s son in Ernakulam. And the one who works in the bank near MG Road. Fair skin, good family. I will call their mothers tomorrow.”
Surya stood in the doorway, the salwar still damp at the small of his back. He listened to the scratch of her pen and the soft click of her tongue as she thought of more possibilities.
That evening the house smelled of the fish curry he had cooked earlier—coconut, chilli, the sharp edge of kudampuli. Meera sat under the single tube light, her salt-and-pepper hair loose around her shoulders. Surya sat opposite her on the low wooden stool, hands folded in his lap the way he had practised. Long strands brushed his wrists each time he moved.
He waited until the plates were cleared and the only sound was the distant croak of frogs after the first light rain.
“Amma,” he said. The voice came out softer than he intended, the familiar Lavanya pitch edged with something that trembled. “I need to tell you something.”
Meera turned toward his voice.
“I don't like men. I like women.”
The words sat in the humid air between them.
“I’m a lesbian. I don't want the engineer's son. Or the man from the bank. Or anyone else.”
Silence stretched.
Meera was silent for a long moment.
“So you don't want to marry a man?”
Surya said "Yes".
“I don't understand everything,” she said. “Maybe I never will.”
She fumbled and reached across the table and took his hand.
“But you are my daughter. If this is what makes you happy, I will not spend my days fighting you.”
Surya's throat tightened.
She pulled him into her arms.
“As long as you are safe and happy,” she whispered. “That is enough for me.” She held him tightly, the way she had held Lavanya after childhood fevers.
Surya closed his eyes.
His plan worked, no dates with men. It should have relieved him.
Instead, Meera's simple word—“happy”—made his stomach tighten. The soft pitch was still in his throat. He could no longer tell where the performance ended and something more personal began.
He stayed inside the circle of her arms until her breathing slowed. When she finally released him, her eyes were wet and her breathing had steadied.
The next days the phone stayed quiet. No more lists. No more mothers calling.
But Meera had apparently replaced one matchmaking project with another.
One afternoon, after Priya finished checking her blood pressure, Meera called her back just as she reached the doorway.
“Priya.”
“Yes, Amma?”
“Sit for a minute.”
Priya glanced at Surya. He was already looking nervous. Meera patted the chair beside her.
“I want to ask you something.”
Priya sat.
Meera folded her hands in her lap, choosing her words carefully.
“Why aren’t you married yet, kanna? A doctor, good family, steady… any mother would be happy.”
Priya smiled politely.
“I haven’t found the right person, Amma.”
Meera nodded slowly, as if she had expected the answer. Then she lowered her voice.
“My Lavanya… she told me she likes girls. No interest in boys at all. I don’t understand these things fully, but I want her to be happy. I thought… maybe you know someone suitable? A nice girl from a good family?”
Priya’s eyes flicked toward Surya for half a second.
Meera continued, almost casually,
“Or… do you like Lavanya?”
The question was soft, but it landed heavily in the room.
Surya nearly dropped the glass he was holding.
“Amma!”
“What?” Meera asked, all innocence. “I’m only asking. You two already get along so well. You come here every day. She listens to you. “You sound different when she is around.”
Priya pressed her lips together, trying not to smile.
“Amma, are you trying to arrange something?”
“I’m trying to help my daughter,” Meera replied simply. “And you.”
Priya smiled, but the question had touched something she normally kept buried.
She had spent most of her adult life watching other people build the lives their families expected of them. Marriage. Children. A respectable house. A husband chosen because everyone agreed he was suitable.
She had never wanted a life simply because it was the life people expected.
“I don't know what I want yet,” Priya said quietly.
Meera squeezed her hand.
“Then don't choose what other people want for you.”
Priya looked at Surya.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“Would you go for coffee with her?”
Priya looked at Surya.
His eyes widened.
Then, very deliberately, Priya smiled.
“Maybe.”
Surya stared at her.
“Priya!”
She laughed.
“What? Your mother asked.”
Meera looked pleased.
“Good. Then I'll tell Lavanya to dress nicely.”
Surya groaned.
“Amma…”
Meera reached for his hand.
“You said you wanted a girl. I found one.”
Priya was laughing openly now.
Surya looked at her helplessly.
“You're enjoying this.”
“Very much.”
Priya glanced toward Surya.
‘So,’ she said lightly, ‘when are we going for that coffee?’
Surya stared at her.
‘You were joking.’
‘Was I?’
‘Priya.’
‘Your mother just arranged our date.’
‘She was teasing.’
From the bedroom came Meera's voice.
‘I was not.’
Priya covered her mouth, laughing.
Surya closed his eyes.
‘This house is impossible.’
Priya leaned closer.
‘Tomorrow?’
He looked at her.
She was still smiling.
‘Just coffee,’ she said.
Surya hesitated.
‘Fine.’
‘Good.’
She straightened.
‘Wear something nice.’
‘Why?’
Priya gave him an innocent look.
‘Because I'm taking Lavanya on a date.’
Surya's face went red.
Priya laughed all the way to the door.
Meera smiled between them, completely satisfied with herself.
“I knew there was something.”
Priya raised an eyebrow.
“What did you know?”
“That you interact with each other differently.”
That silenced both of them.
Meera leaned back.
“Now go. Both of you. Have your coffee.”
Surya stared at Priya.
Priya stared back.
Neither of them moved.
Finally Priya said softly,
“Well?”
Surya swallowed.
“You're impossible.”
“That's not a no.”
He looked away.
“No.”
Priya smiled.
“Good.”
The moment lasted only a few seconds.
But after Meera returned to her room, neither of them spoke about it.
They didn't need to.
On the third night after the confession, Meera slept early. Surya locked the door of Lavanya’s old room and stood in front of the small mirror. The salwar-kameez was still on.
He lay still, the padding still pressed against him, the night air cool on the damp fabric. If Lavanya ever came home, that lie would have to be explained. He did not take the clothes off that night. The forms stayed. The voice stayed ready.
Sleep took him while he was still thinking about the day.
In the dream, the rain had stopped.
He stood in a small community hall that smelled of jasmine and fresh turmeric. Strings of marigold hung from the ceiling. A low brass lamp flickered near the floor. People sat in rows, but their faces were blurred, as if the dream refused to let him recognise anyone clearly.
Only one person was sharp.
Priya stood at the far end of the hall in a deep green saree, the same colour she sometimes wore after hospital shifts. She looked calm. Certain.
And opposite her, dressed as the bride, was him.
He was wearing a cream silk saree with a maroon border. The blouse was fitted across a pair of natural breasts. He looked down, surprised to realise they were no longer the breast forms Priya had given him. Jasmine was pinned into his long hair.
A thin gold chain rested against his collarbone. When he looked down, he saw the same soft hands that had massaged Meera’s feet that morning, the same painted nails, the same body the padding and forms had given him.
Priya stepped forward and took his hand.
No one objected.
No one laughed.
The dream version of Meera sat in the front row, smiling with quiet pride, as if this was exactly what she had wanted all along.
A simple thali was placed around his neck. Priya’s fingers brushed the back of his neck as she tied it. The metal was cool for a second, then warm.
Someone said the words “husband and wife.”
Priya leaned in and kissed him, slow and claiming, in front of everyone.
In the dream, he kissed her back.
When he woke, the room was still dark. His heart was hammering. The salwar was damp with sweat. The breast forms felt heavier than usual. The padding between his legs was warm.
He sat up, breathing hard, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
It was only a dream.
It had to be only a dream.
But for a long time he could still feel the weight of the thali against his collarbone and the way Priya had looked at him when she tied it — as if she had been waiting for him to stop running.
He did not sleep again that night.
Discussion (0)