‘Arre Ladies Hain‘– two men leaning onto the handrails at the entrance of Belgachia Metro, Kolkata, comment between themselves. I do not remember the exact clothes that clung to my body but it were enough to make people look twice, either at my chest to determine the presence of the secondary sex organ, or to browse down to figure if I had a bulge. It was perhaps my face that gave it away but I wonder if I can ever travel through the city without having men and women trying to determine the genitals I have and thereby my gender.
While the feminist war-cry of ‘personal is political’ is what I firmly believe in, my gender con-conforming self is often exhausted by the stares that continue to pervade every time I step out of the house.
While the feminist war-cry of ‘personal is political’ is what I firmly believe in, my gender con-conforming self is often exhausted by the stares that continue to pervade every time I step out of the house. Apart from clothes, hair also holds political power, reminding us of the portrait of Mahsa Amini. While I’m not being legally persecuted by the State for shortening my hair, it quickly ascertains my sexuality as a butch. Genderbashers have conflated gender and sexuality, as a rationale to bash the outlaws, hence their reluctance to view the two, independently. Thus, whenever I enter a room, my clothes precede my existence.
(Un)belonging and acceptance
When the city was witnessing protests against the brutal murder of a young doctor, a convent school, where I was an alumni, had been permitted to organise a solidarity rally, which I decided to be a part of. Upon arrival, I was greeted by a nonchalant statement, ‘chheleder toh allowed na (boys are not allowed)‘ by a concerned acquaintance who thought it would sting my ears, making me revert to the old ways of presentation, or ‘dressing like a girl‘.
The school had seen my feminine self, at the stage where being a “tomboy” is acceptable, but at this point, I’ve transgressed the acceptable norms of presentation and I’m always reminded of it. The all-girls school felt threatened by the presence of a woman in supposedly “boy-clothes“, as if I were trespassing the space meant for gender-conforming women, only.
This brings one to understand the public nature of personal lived experiences whereby my appearance at the “ladies only” compartment of the metro bring all the exacerbated attention towards my clothed-body but is alleviated once I make contact with another female companion, whose acceptance, mitigates the curiosity, as well as, threat.
Transformation and transcending the gender binary
From being typified as an overweight woman to being the person who defies the norms of the binary, the journey was rugged. With the face that often manages to pass me off, as a young boy, my gender identity is always questioned. As progressive as Bengalis position themselves to be, their reluctance to look beyond my bodily attributes, have got myself questioning the ubiquitous nature of the gender binary and if my body will ever be free from the paradox that is gender.
While their rationale to police my body remains the same, to put me into a straitjacket of conformity, my resilience to overcome their policing, multiplies.
Growing up, I’ve been asked to quit wearing shorts, by my fathers’ friends. I was fat and it exposed my thighs. The same person now questions the ever-shortening length of my hair. While their rationale to police my body remains the same, to put me into a straitjacket of conformity, my resilience to overcome their policing, multiplies.
My peers, some of whom have witnessed my over-weight self, have been seen to compliment me more these days, now that I fit their vision of an “attractive person“; I cannot help but feel sad for my “old-self” who had to pretend to laugh at the fat jokes which continue to haunt me, till date.
Reclaiming what’s mine
With numerous sites of contestations that I expect to traverse, everyday, my university, has played the role of a catalyst, in this journey of championing the personal and political cause of dispelling the stereotypical notions of ‘who is a woman?‘. I did not realise that a waist-coat over a white shirt, would make me look like someone who, was participating in a, I quote, ‘go-as-you-like contest‘, as pointed out by an intellectual.
While that instance became the first gathering where I sported a “masculine” outfit, I felt like myself. All throughout my adolescence, I stayed ahead of all trends and was never late to join the fashion bandwagon but there were some reservations that I could not point my fingers at. It was 2021 when I realised that challenging the perceptions around masculinity and femininity, was at the heart of my identity.
I’ve been called, Sir and/or Madam, at times, both, by the same person, but I do not correct them. Their perception of my body is a trifling matter.
At times, the genuine curiosity takes me by surprise, but I choose to answer their queries.
At times, the genuine curiosity takes me by surprise, but I choose to answer their queries. I remember returning from university when I decided to look into a street-side jewellery shop, and the vendor, with a meek demeanour decided to ask if I’m a woman. He was taken aback by my affirmative answer but chose to not sell me a lip-balm for he thought that it won’t match my attire. He said and I quote, ‘Aap to lip-gloss nahi pehente honge (I don’t suppose you wear lip-gloss)?‘.
His questions did not feel intrusive nor did it make me feel disrespected. It is not often that I get to appreciate the reaction that my gender expression draws; most of them being belligerent. One would think that my expression would not be a cause for concern, at a relative’s funeral; I was proven wrong when my mother was told how lucky she was for having ‘two sons‘, one of them being, myself.
My position in the gender spectrum, is neither ambiguous nor confusing. I’m a woman, and that is all that strangers need to know.
