Bala…oh, how many years has it been? 

The second I spotted you yesterday, I knew, I had to sit you down and untangle this knot of secrets choking my heart.

You flickered into view and I froze: Is that really her? Then I saw it, that jagged scar slanting down your forehead. Yeah, that one. No doubt left. It was you.

You didn’t recognize me. Of course not. How could the fifth-grade Ganesh fit inside this body? So I introduced myself. Your eyes went wide, mouth half-open, no words. Those eyes fired a thousand questions at me.. ping, ping, ping, but the moment didn’t let me answer. I asked for your number. You hesitated, thumb hovering, then typed it in.

Standing in front of you, or even on a call, I have no clue how you’ll take what’s coming. I don’t know what picture of me is flashing in your head right now. That’s why I’m writing WhatsApp letter, raw and real. Read it, then decide: hug your old friend close or shove me away like the rest. Your call.

Rebirth? Who knows. But this feels like one. In my first life, I was your buddy Ganesh. In second life, I am Gauri, whom you’re staring at now.

Tell me you remember, “That girly kid… never sits with the boys, always chasing the girls, playing their games.” You and Rekha used to crack up. I didn’t care. Being around you felt right.

People talked. Some girls rolled their eyes. I was lost. The older I got, the louder the war inside me roared. Outer me, inner me—two strangers sharing one skin. Felt like I was trespassing in someone else’s body.

A girl, locked in a boy’s cage. Why wasn’t I born right-side out? Am I the only one? Questions chewed holes in my sleep. No one to tell. Every day a fist-fight with myself. Myths, rigid norms, rules, stares around me. I spent my childhood shrinking and insecurity.

I wanted lipstick, pretty dresses, to shine. My mind craved to present myself that way. My brain buzzed with brand-new dreams and strange feelings I'd never had before. Does anyone else feel this? Or just me? endless questions and doubts.

In high school, bullying from classmates, constant humiliation, hell on loop. Classmates hissed chekku, kojja, point-five (derogatory terms ) etc., anything to watch me crumple. Other class students andTeachers joined in.

complaints about my walk, my behaviour reached home. MY family saw it as shameful. It was haunted by self-doubt that stalked me: Am I the mistake? I was not normal like everyone else. If God showed up, I’d grab his collar and demand loudly Why this humiliation for me?

The woman inside refused to stay quiet. Then I met others, same storm, same fire. They saw me, named me, pulled me in.

Crossing the gender wall? Not a stroll. Society spits, mocks, starves you out. I kept learning how brutal the view is from the other side.

Then, lightning. Gender surgery exists. Escape this prison, step into the body that fits. The fog that had choked me for years lifted. Hiding, pretending, forcing “boy” on myself, I was done. I chose me.

Vijayawada nurse, twenty thousand rupees, female surgery. I told Mom and Dad. The look they gave me, pure horror, still burns.

Dad beat Mom. “He’s dragging our name through mud!” Poor Mom—what was her crime, Bala? The blows hurt her less than my words did. She who loved me most, whom I loved most, love vanished overnight. She wept, cursed her womb, damned me to my face. Later I tried sweet-talk. Dad, insulted to the bone, made me sign away every paisa of inheritance. “Go. Live your freak show.” Door slammed. My sister turned away, cheeks burning.

What did I do wrong? Is my future cancelled because of hormones? Family chose hate over understanding. Saw me as untouchable.

In college, the same script. Girls giggled, boys kept ten-foot poles. “Don’t touch me.” Young, clueless, drowning in shame, why this life? I cried alone.

Scared to speak, I argued with mirrors. Fought for myself, for every hidden kid like me.

Every breath screamed: Become her. Fully. Not for anyone else. For the love I owed myself.

I cut every imagined tie and landed alone in Hyderabad’s neon roar. Freedom tasted sweet, then fear crept in: Will the city swallow me?

Amrutha akka opened her arms and her hijra commune. My degree? Toilet paper. Begging on trains and signals became breakfast. At twenty I paid for the surgery. Amrutha akka held my hand through the pain, physical, mental, hell. Mom, Dad, sis, ghosts in the recovery room.

I craved Mom’s fever-cuddles, Dad’s proud gaze, my sister’s teasing shove. But I was a stranger now.

Mom heard rumors, wailed she’d lost the right to my funeral fire. That didn’t sting. She got it. She saw daughter. I danced.

Womanhood, crash course. New sisters taught survival:

How to dodge groping hands

How to smile when wallets stay shut.

How to stitch pride from scraps.

Begging turned to skin-trade. Another circle of hell. Men paid for secrecy, left bruises. I started hating my own reflection.

Bala, skin crawling yet? Keep reading. Please.

Pretty face, curvy hips, men chased, confessed “love,” demanded midnight hide-and-seek. Once they knew the truth: “Live with me, just don’t tell.” They wanted a thrill, not family. Too many beds, zero respect. Self-loathing knocked.

I wanted love. Respect. Home. 

The family I was born into had cremated me alive. Society padlocked the gate. I was done losing.

Respectable job, dream or joke? 

Air-hostess interviews, call centers, NGOs. 

Everywhere, “Trans? No.” One creep: “No job, but here’s my number, night shift?” Rage. Shame. I tried to gather courage in a hundred ways together, and finally landed at an NGO. Discrimination still followed me like cheap perfume.

Marriage, society’s gold seal, right? I wanted vows, kids, like a normal woman. But trans women get promised then pain. Trust issues grew fangs.

Then, heart-skips. One man. Eyes locked. Same thunder in his chest. Yuvaraj, Born Yamuna. My mirror, my match. Both trans.

We decided to marry traditionally and approached the temple priest. He hesitated and shouted “Shiva Shiva.., I never done such a wedding. I won't go away."

We went to the marriage Registrar office,  they hesitated too. 

“Law says man-woman. We became man and woman legally, surgically. Why criminalize our bodies' priorities, desires, and needs? 

We didn’t wait for stamps.

 No caste, creed, gothra, ritual. We kicked dust and built our own altar with new hopes.

Yuvaraj’s uncles ordered “Kill them both.” 

Neighbors, “Disgrace on wheels.” 

Every street, every stare, glass shards. We bled, but never let go.

We bother no one. Why do they hunt us? We have the right to choose our forever. Who are they to veto?

We want kids like everyone else. to raise them as responsible citizens. Why don't you think, we have so many hopes, desies, dreams, as you all and more? In the modern world, ancient minds... 

Seeing you cracked the dam, Bala. Joy and ache poured out.

We don’t care what tongues wag. We tighten our grip, not loosen it. Having each other is oxygen.

I face the same glass ceiling you do, plus the trans tax. I’m still climbing.

We are citizens. Tax-payers. Dreamers. Wanting kids, is that sin?

People laugh in my face, “Haha... needs a womb? Where’s the baby factory?” I smile, swallow glass, walk on.

To me, motherhood is a miracle, blood to breath. Carrying life, nursing, watching tiny fingers curl, that is completion.

Songs drilled it in: Greatest role = Mom. Maybe brainwash, maybe the truth.

Yuvaraj argued, “Even if not from your womb, raising a child is motherhood.” 

Doctor Natasha Said  “Motherhood is a 24-hour love job. Womb optional. Genderless.”

We tried adoption walls. Surrogacy is red tape. IVF is a money mountain.

I met with a road accident. Brain injury. hospitalised. our Savings vaporized. I counted my cousins’ kids, Mom’s delivery age. Can this body give birth? Am I losing the race?

Doctors explained to us, “No uterus means no pregnancy.” 

Uterus transplant?  “Experimental. Risky. Ethically grey.” 

IVF is possible. Flicker of hope.

Yuvaraj, “I won’t trade your life for a dream.” 

Doctor, “Trans men carry. Pause hormones, let biology do the rest.”

We stopped the clock on transitions.

New plan. 

Yuvaraj was born with a uterus, carried. 

Gauri, sperm donor. 

One surgery.  life began.

Sperm meets egg inside him. 

Check-ups. Growing belly. Kicks. C-section day, a tiny, perfect human in my arms. no words.

Yuvaraj’s milk? Trickles. 

Mine? Nine days post-hormone tweak, drops appeared. Our baby was born from his womb, latched to my breast. Body electric. Soul on fire.

Feeding her isn’t duty. It’s claiming the miracle I never dared imagine.

Trans man pregnancy, gawking neighbors, rude questions, endless forms. We swallowed it all. 

Her gummy smile erased the bitterness.

Tomorrow she’ll face the world. We’ll teach her armor.

Am I Mom? Dad? 

Both. Neither?

Parent. Motherhood has no gender badge.

You’re a big-shot lawyer now, Bala. 

Look at us, really look. 

Tell me where the law, the heart, the universe says no.

Still your old friend

Ganesh, now Gauri

Notes:
chekka, kojja, point vice- regional language slurs for effeminate boys or trans people
hijra - third gender person
Amruta - name
akka - elder sister , or respectful term for an elder trans woman in the trans community
gothra - ancestral lineage in Hindu tradition, required for most traditional marriages