This story is born from real feelings, real struggles, and real dreams—but it is not a mirror of one single life.
Some moments come from truth, some from imagination, and some from the quiet spaces in between. Names, faces, and details have been changed to protect hearts and identities.
What matters most is not whether every event truly happened—but that the emotions behind them are real.
The secret has been ours for sixteen years—mine and my mother’s. Whenever we are alone, I shed the skin the world sees and become myself. I am a woman, not by birth but by identity. With Amma’s guidance, I’ve learned it all—the drape of a saree, the art of makeup, how to walk in grace. I’ve kept a softly feminine physique, grown my hair to my shoulders, though for the outside, I add extensions, a wig, completing the girl I am inside. To everyone else, I am a slim, quiet man. But in our private world, I am simply me. I owe everything to Amma. She never questioned; she only taught, and I have always followed her lead.
In 2022, a chance came—a job in another city, with a salary two-and-a-half times my current one. It was work I loved, and it promised freedom. A new place meant I could explore my true self more deeply. My father was reluctant, but the practical argument won: better pay, a career move. I convinced him.
By September, I was searching for a place. I found a shared two-BHK paying guest accommodation—four of us. A single room would have been ideal for my secret life, but it was too costly. The PG would have to do.
Two days before my move, Amma surprised me. “We’re shopping for your journey,” she said. We went to a bustling bazaar known for clothes and cosmetics. I assumed we were buying ordinary things—men’s shirts, trousers. I was wrong.
“You’ll be on your own there,” Amma said softly, her eyes knowing. “I want you to have your own things.” My own things. For sixteen years, I had worn only her sarees, her innerwear, borrowing from her closet. The idea of owning my own feminine wardrobe left me speechless with joy.
We started in the innerwear section. She picked out four matching sets of bra and panties. “And slips,” she added practically, selecting two white ones. “For when you wear kurtas or salwar kameez.” Next, we chose nightwear—two cotton nighties and a sleeveless satin nightdress that fell to the knee. I could already picture myself in it.
We moved on: six kurtis, cotton and satin leggings, two figure-hugging bodycon dresses. Then, a delicate chiffon saree. “And I want you to have these,” Amma said, her voice thick. “My silk sarees—two of them—and a satin one. Wear them, and think of me.” I hugged her tightly, tears in my eyes. “Thank you, Amma. I don’t know how I got so lucky.”
We didn’t stop. We bought Western t-shirts, baggy jeans, and then every makeup item a woman might need—primer, concealer, lipsticks, blush, kajal. She added jewellery: earrings, a necklace. It was a complete kit, a full transformation, packed with love. She spent nearly twenty thousand rupees. Guilt flickered in me, but her face was radiant, happy to do this for me.
After three hours, we rested at a hotel, shared a quiet lunch, and returned home. With my sister married and gone, it was just us and Papa. Before he returned, Amma secretly packed everything into my suitcase. I added my regular clothes, my heart pounding with anticipation.
On the day of my travel, both my parents came to the station to see me off. Standing on the platform, I hugged them—Papa with his firm pat on the back, Amma with a secret, knowing squeeze of my hand. “Be safe,” she whispered.
The train whistle blew. I boarded, found my seat by the window. As the train began to move, I watched them grow smaller on the platform. The city blurred past, giving way to open fields. A new city, a new life, a hidden dream—all waiting for me. And in my suitcase, carefully folded beside my plain shirts, lay my true self, wrapped in silk and satin, given to me by the one person who truly saw me. The journey had begun.
