Arun shook his head and pushed the saree away, his chest tightening. “No, Amma. I can’t do this,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The very idea unsettled him, made his skin prickle with discomfort. He was a man, a grieving husband—how could he even think of taking Priya’s place in any form?
Lakshmi, however, was unfazed. She simply picked up the saree and folded it neatly, placing it beside her. “I understand, Arun,” she said softly, her voice patient and kind. “I won’t force you. But you must take care of yourself. You can’t go on like this, unkempt and lifeless.”
She reached for his long, tangled hair, her fingers brushing through the thick strands. “At least let me groom you a little. Look at yourself, kanna. Priya would scold you if she saw you like this.” Arun sighed, too tired to resist as she fetched a comb and a bottle of coconut oil. He sat still as she began working through the knots in his hair, the soothing scent filling the room.
“There, doesn’t that feel better?” she asked after a while, tying his hair into a loose braid. Arun swallowed hard but nodded slightly. He had grown his hair out after Priya’s death, not caring about appearances, but now, with his mother-in-law tending to it, he felt oddly… comforted.
“That’s good,” Lakshmi said with a gentle smile. “Now, why don’t you change into something fresh? You’ve been wearing the same dull clothes for days.” She walked over to the cupboard and pulled out a simple, soft cotton nightgown. Arun stiffened immediately.
“No! Amma, I’m not wearing that,” he protested, shaking his head.
Lakshmi simply sighed. “It’s just a nightgown, kanna. Who will see you? It’s much more comfortable than those stiff shirts. You need to start caring for yourself.” She placed it beside him and turned away, as if giving him the choice.
Arun stared at the garment, his hands clenching into fists. He wanted to refuse outright, but something about her calm persistence made it difficult. His mind screamed at him that this was wrong, yet a part of him—perhaps the part that was too tired to argue—felt the slightest tug of surrender.
Lakshmi glanced back at him and smiled knowingly. “Take your time, my dear. I will bring you some warm milk,” she said before leaving the room.
Alone now, Arun swallowed hard. He told himself he wouldn’t wear it. He couldn’t. But the silky fabric sat be
side him, waiting…
Arun clenched his fists, shaking his head. He wouldn’t do this. He couldn’t. The very thought of wearing a nightgown, of giving in even slightly, sent a wave of shame through him. He stood up abruptly, as if to distance himself from the garment.
When Lakshmi returned, she saw the nightgown still untouched on the cot. She said nothing at first, simply placing a glass of warm milk in front of him. But her eyes held a quiet knowing, a patience that unnerved Arun more than any argument would have.
“You’re stubborn, just like Priya,” she finally said, shaking her head with a small smile. “She always hated wearing new sarees until I forced her to try them on.”
Arun frowned. “This isn’t the same, Amma. I am not Priya.”
“No, you are not,” she agreed. “But tell me, is clinging to your grief making you feel any more like yourself? Or is it only making you disappear?”
Arun had no answer to that. He remained silent as Lakshmi reached for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I won’t force you, kanna. But I will take care of you. Tomorrow, I will trim your eyebrows a little. They’ve become too thick, and you will feel fresher.” She paused, then added, “And maybe just for comfort, try wearing something softer at home.”
Arun opened his mouth to refuse, but her gaze was unwavering. He sighed, not wanting to fight. “Fine,” he muttered. “But nothing more than that.”
Lakshmi only smiled. “Of course, kanna.”
But deep in her heart, she knew. This was only the beginning.
Arun sat still, his gaze flickering toward the soft fabric beside him. The house was silent except for the faint rustle of the wind outside. He took a deep breath, running a hand through his neatly braided hair. The scent of coconut oil still lingered, oddly comforting.
No one would see. No one would know.
Slowly, hesitantly, he reached for the nightgown, his fingers brushing over the cool cotton. His throat felt dry as he stood up and unbuttoned his shirt, feeling a strange mix of reluctance and something else—something he didn’t want to name. When he finally slipped the nightgown over his head, the fabric felt light, unfamiliar against his skin. It wasn’t tight, it wasn’t clinging—it was just… different.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and his breath hitched. The long braid, the soft fabric—it was subtle, but the reflection looking back at him already felt less like the man he had been. His pulse quickened.
Just then, Lakshmi returned. She took one look at him and smiled as if she had expected this all along. “Much better, kanna,” she said, nodding approvingly. “Now you look like someone who wants to live again.”
Arun swallowed, a lump forming in his throat. “It’s just for comfort,” he said quickly, as if saying it aloud would make it true.
Lakshmi chuckled, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Of course, my dear. Just for comfort.”
But deep down, Arun knew something had shi
fted. And there was no turning back.
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