They took the two-wheeler, Raj's motorcycle.

  It felt strange from the very beginning—Kiran, now dressed in a soft cotton kurti (a tunic-like top) and salwar (loose-fitting trousers), clutching a dupatta (a long scarf worn with Indian outfits) that kept slipping off one shoulder, climbing onto the pillion seat behind Raj like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

  But it wasn’t.

  Not for him.

  The act of sitting behind Raj itself felt alien, awkward. He struggled for a moment to bance, adjusting the folds of his salwar, keeping the dupatta from flying off in the morning breeze. His hands hovered awkwardly behind Raj, unsure of where to pce them.

  Raj, oblivious to the storm in his head, revved the engine. “Hold on,” he said casually, gncing back.

  Kiran hesitated, then gingerly pced both hands on Raj’s shoulders, keeping as much distance between their bodies as possible. The bike jerked slightly as it started, and he instinctively grabbed tighter, fingers clutching at Raj’s T-shirt. And when suddenly Raj braked at a traffic signal, Kiran lurched forward, his breasts pressing into Raj's back. The contact sent a ripple of discomfort through him—not because it was unpleasant, but because it wasn’t. And that scared him more.

  By the time they reached his parents’ house—a modest two-bedroom apartment in a four-storey building tucked in a quiet residential ne—his palms were damp, and his heart was racing.

  Raj parked near the gate and dismounted effortlessly. Kiran took longer, clumsily climbing down and adjusting his dupatta again. As they climbed the stairs and reached their first-floor apartment, his eyes scanned the familiar passage, the namepte with his father’s name etched in bold brass letters on the door. Everything looked the same. Too much the same.

  Raj rang the bell, and moments ter, the door opened.

  His mother stood there, sari (a traditional Indian garment) neatly draped, hair tied back, a warm, expectant smile spreading across her face. “Finally! Come in, come in. Priya’s already compining you’ll make her te for her shopping.”

  Then she turned to Raj, her smile widening. “Arre jamai raja (oh dear son-in-w), you’ve become thinner since st time! Are you not feeding him properly, Kiran?”

  Raj grinned. “I keep telling her the same thing.”

  Kiran’s mother ughed and stepped aside, ushering them both in. “Come, come, sit. You must be tired from the ride. Let me get you some tea and something to eat.”

  His father was inside, reading a newspaper at the dining table. He looked up, gave a brief nod. “How are you, *beti* (daughter),” he said, voice firm and stern.

  Kiran answered softly, “I am fine, Papa.”

  The retionship with his father felt so different in this world.

  What had gone wrong here?

  In his world, his Papa had been supportive, encouraging him, even spoiling him to some extent.

  Here, they seemed too distant. Too estranged. Why wouldn't the memories tell him what went wrong? Something was there, hidden just beyond reach. He strained for it, and the memory opened for him.

  He realised, "The memory had been repressed by her mind".

  He caught visuals of Kiran and her father arguing, her father spping her once, twice, thrice… oh no, not again in anger.

  Yes, he remembered now.

  Her father had been unhappy with her “uncultured” behavior, as he had put it.

  She had become good friends with a male colleague, Sameer, from her college. Sameer's handsome, smiling face fshed before her eyes. It had just been a good friendship, clear from her side. Even Sameer had been merely supportive and helpful, never crossing lines.

  But someone had seen them sitting together in a cafe.

  And then when she had come home after college, all hell had broken loose. Her father had accused her of being a loose character, a blemish on their family name.

  Young, rebellious Kiran had tried to argue back, defending herself.

  And then her Papa had gotten violent—spping her once, twice, many times, till she was bck and blue.

  Kiran winced at the memory.

  So not all memories came easily, he thought. Some unpleasant ones were repressed, hidden below the surface.

  His thoughts were broken by Raj's voice as he offered a respectful traditional greeting, “Namaste, Papa,” and was rewarded with a smile from the older man.

  “Come sit,” his father said. “I’ll ask your mother-in-w to make your favorite pakoras (crispy Indian fritters).”

  Kiran’s mother reached out, cupping his face gently. “You look tired, beti. Are you eating properly? You’re not working too hard, are you?”

  “I’m fine,” Kiran said quickly. Too quickly.

  Raj stepped in to fill the silence. “She’s been feeling a little off since morning. Maybe just a bad dream.”

  His mother clucked sympathetically. “Hmm. Come help me in the kitchen,” she said. In the kitchen, she held Kiran's hands. “Now tell me what's wrong? You have always been such a strong girl.” Her eyes lingered on Kiran’s face a second longer than usual. “You were crying, weren’t you? Your eyes are still a little puffy. Did you two fight?”

  Kiran tensed.

  “Beta (child),” his mother continued gently, lowering her voice as she sat next to him, “you can tell me. You know, when a married woman has to adjust to many things… But if anything’s wrong, you must speak up. Is everything… normal between you two?”

  Kiran blinked. “Normal?”

  “You know what I mean.” She smiled, but it was probing. “If there’s been, you know, misunderstanding… a break in physical retions...”

  Kiran flushed, suddenly aware of how warm his face had become.

  “No, Ma. Nothing like that. I’m just feeling down.”

  She looked at her and said, “Something’s wrong. I am your mother, I can definitely tell. Look at you, you are not even wearing bangles, no earrings, no makeup. This is not you, Kiran.”

  Kiran thought in her mind, Yes, Because, I am not her.

  She cupped his face again lovingly. “My Kiran always faces the world with courage. Now cheer up. I don’t want to see tears in the eyes of my tiger.”

  Kiran remembered and smiled. She had always called her daughter, Kiran, her tiger.

  His mother saw that smile and seemed satisfied. “Hmm. Okay. Let's bring the tea for the men.”

  Kiran groaned internally—yes, *for the men.*

  He carried the tea in a tray with a comfort surprising to him.

  Raj turned to Kiran with a pyful smirk as he walked in. “Now even your mom thinks I’m the vilin.”

  Kiran gave him a weary look.

  Before he could say anything, a voice rang out from behind them.

  “Di! I’ve been waiting for you all morning!” Priya’s voice was a rush of sunshine and energy as she bounded into the room and threw her arms around Kiran.

  Kiran was momentarily taken aback, the sudden closeness catching him off guard. But as Priya hugged him tightly, something deep inside responded with equal warmth. His arms wrapped around her without thinking, her soft perfume bringing with it a wave of memories—midnight chats, pillow fights, shared secrets whispered in the dark. Her presence was familiar, comforting. For a moment, he wasn’t a man trapped in a woman’s body. He was simply Priya’s elder sister—Di [older sister].

  “You’re te,” Priya pouted, pulling back slightly. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

  “Never,” Kiran said, surprised at how easily the words came. “You’re impossible to forget.”

  Priya grinned and grabbed Kiran’s hand. “Come to my room! I have so much to tell you.”

  Without waiting for a response, she tugged Kiran down the hallway, past the kitchen, to the room they had once shared.

  Kiran stepped in and paused.

  The room was exactly as the memories had shown him—two beds pushed to opposite walls, shelves crammed with old novels, makeup kits, and tiny photo frames. The posters on the walls were of romantic Bollywood films, fairy lights strung across the mirror, a soft pink curtain billowing from the open window.

  As he looked around, female Kiran’s memories drifted in like smoke—nights spent studying for exams, sharing whispered dreams about love and romance, and midnight cups of ice cream in the dark. This room was a vault of girlhood, and it welcomed him back like a long-lost friend.

  Priya flopped onto the bed, patting the space beside her. “Sit, na [a soft tag word in Hindi meaning ‘okay?’ or ‘please’]. You look… different.”

  Kiran sat down, adjusting his dupatta [a long scarf traditionally worn with Indian outfits]. “Do I?”

  Priya leaned closer, peering at him. “Di, are you unwell? You seem so… off-colour today. You didn’t even smile when you walked in.”

  Kiran tugged the dupatta closer, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m just tired. A little out of sorts.”

  Priya nodded slowly, then looked away. Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “I guess we’re all a little out of sorts these days.”

  Kiran turned toward her, sensing the shift.

  Priya was fiddling with the edge of her bedsheet now, eyes focused on the fabric. “Only seven days left… the engagement’s next Sunday.” She ughed nervously. “Can you believe it? My sagai [engagement] is happening.”

  Kiran smiled gently. “You’ve always dreamed of this, haven’t you?”

  “I have.” She paused. “I’ve been chatting with Rahul nonstop. He’s been so nice… and, er, romantic.” She giggled shyly. “The shopping’s been fun so far, but… we still need to finalize the lehenga [traditional bridal outfit] today, no matter what.”

  And then Kiran noticed something—Priya was holding something back.

  She looked up, eyes suddenly wide and vulnerable. “But I’m scared, Di.”

  Kiran’s heart softened.

  “What if I mess up? What if he doesn’t like me after marriage? What if he turns out to be a red fg? What if I can’t… adjust?” She hugged her knees to her chest. “Everyone talks about compromise and patience and adjustment. But what if I’m not good at those things?”

  Kiran reached out and took her hand. “Then you’ll learn.”

  “And if I’m not ready?”

  “No one is ever truly ready, Priya. Not for marriage. Not for life.” He smiled gently. “You just grow into it. One step at a time.”

  She looked at him. “But you never had doubts like these, Di.”

  He hesitated. “Maybe I did. But I had to wear a brave face.”

  Priya studied him, then smiled faintly. “You sound different. A little more… wise.”

  Kiran gave a soft ugh, the kind that comes when a truth is almost too absurd to share. “Maybe life’s trying to teach me something.”

  Priya blinked, tears brimming but not falling. “I’m gd you’re here, Di. I really needed you.”

  Kiran squeezed her hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Glossary

  Di-Hindi term for “older sister”; a term of affection and respect.

  Na – A conversational Hindi particle, often used for emphasis or persuasion, simir to “okay?” or “please.”

  Dupatta – A long, light scarf worn with traditional Indian outfits such as salwar kameez or lehenga.

  Sagai – Hindi word for “engagement,” a traditional pre-wedding ceremony.

  Lehenga – A traditional Indian bridal outfit, usually consisting of a long, embroidered skirt, blouse (choli), and dupatta.

  Kurti – A tunic-like top worn commonly by women in South Asia.

  Salwar – Loose-fitting trousers, typically paired with a kurti and dupatta.

  Jamai raja – A pyful Hindi term meaning “dear son-in-w.”

  Beti – Hindi word for daughter.

  Beta – A gender-neutral Hindi term meaning child; used affectionately.

  Pakoras – A popur Indian snack made by deep-frying vegetables or meat in spiced gram flour batter.

  That's the end of Chapter 3. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely. Thankyou

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