Was. Not. My. Voice.That voice was definitely feminine and sounded very young. I nervouslypulled my hand to my face, it was smaller, and my fingernails werepainted a light pink color. Painted nails could only mean one thing; Ilooked down and there was a body to match that delicate hand. There wasno mistaking the fact that I was no longer myself.My chest was marked by a pair of budding breasts. My shirt had beenchanged from a men's T-shirt to some sort of blouse. Looking furtherdown, I was wearing girl's jean shorts. No wonder why I felt weird onthe pile of clothes, my shorts lost about a foot of fabric and my nowexposed legs were touching everything.I ran my hands along my body. What I was feeling was feeling very real. And even if it was imagined, I doubt I could have imagined the sensationof my fingers touching my breasts through my top. Because it wasn'tlike anything I felt when I touched my chest as a man. This was noillusion.I started to panic. "Am I mad?" No, that. I was thinking about places to visit. Then I watched a Telugu movie, by chance, and made me feel awe about villages. I had not been to my nani maa’s (maternal grandmother) house for some years now. So I decided to go meet her.She always complains of me not visiting her. So on a fine weekend, I started for my maternal grandmother house. After taking a 24 hour-long train journey and 6 hours by bus I finally reached the village. She was both surprised and happy seeing me. I had not told her about me visiting her and wanted to give her a surprise. She welcomed me and we had a long talk over dinner. I went to bed as I was damn tired. Next day after waking up I decided to go on a tour of the village as I wanted to enjoy some of the fresh air. I visited a few friends of mine with whom I used to play during my childhood visit to the village.I went to their fields and talked and relived those old days. In one of those meetings, I met Rekha (obvious name change). She is the sister of one of my.
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