I lay a finger on my foot and trace the curves. There’s a small yet noticeable arch between the heel and the big toe. A sharp inward turn leads up to an arc. The family of toes rests together, curled up in a circular fashion.
I run my fingers over the sole – “not even an ounce of coarseness,” I gape in admiration.
My petite feet are much revered (by me, of course). I scrub them every morning and keep them covered even during summer. Fanning sweaty socks is not how I like to spend my afternoons, and no harm should befall the magnificence of my beloved.
§
I slip into a pair of shoes and take the stairs. “Oh wait, did I lock my door? I must’ve,” I think to myself and continue my downward stroll. I am finally able to untangle my earphones. Plugging them in, I cross the threshold of the four-story building that houses my one-room apartment. It’s dark outside. I make my way through the narrow lanes, past fellow pedestrians, to reach my destination.
“Paanch Marlboro Light aur ek chai, cheeni kum.”
I was a regular at Sanjay bhaiya’s shop and would often indulge him in a ‘game of validation’. The game was simple. I would arrive at his trapezium-shaped store and gaze at all the artefacts until he would, with a sleight of the hand, open his drawer and run his fingers over all the boxes, tapping the white and golden Marlboro Light.
“Paanch?” He would signal, prompting me to produce an affirmative nod. There is something eerily satisfying about completing a transaction without uttering a word. But I didn’t feel the urge to play today. I knew, perhaps, that Sanjay bhaiya’s remembrance couldn’t calm the rising tides of my restless mind.
I sip the tea. “Kadak,” I remark.
Lighting the cigarette, I wish my woes would evanesce with the smoke. But I couldn’t draw the image out of my head.
I was at the security check, and the arrival time for the next metro was two minutes. I hurried past the men and stood right behind two middle-aged womxn. Finally, it was my turn. I stepped up nonchalantly, but the lady security personnel seemed furious. I was perplexed. My backpack was already rolling through the baggage scanner.
Was it because I had my earphones on? It had to be the earphones. The metro people are finicky about that. I pulled them out of my ears and wrapped them around my phone.
“Aadmi ka line udhar hai.”
“Bu … ,” I fumbled.
An all too familiar sensation crept over my body. I was never the one to follow conventions. When girls were marrying their dolls, I was scoring fours and sixes on a cricket pitch. I wore baggy t-shirts and cargo pants, cycled with my male friends, and profusely refused to obey my grandparents’ commands. They wanted me to be more ‘girl-like’ and I never knew what that meant.
I grew up challenging the stereotype, so naturally, my breasts revolted by not ballooning beyond the bare minimum. My finely cropped hair and unisex shirt only added to the confusion.
“Udhar.”
This untimely reminiscence angered the security personnel, who was getting tetchier by the second. As she scanned my body from top to bottom, I bumbled: “Main ladki hoon.”
Her cheeks turned pink, she was embarrassed.
“Sorry,” she said, and ran her handheld metal detector over my torso.
Also read: The Boy Beyond the Binary
“What makes me a womxn?” I ponder, sipping my tea. Is it the sonority of my voice or the silkiness of my hair? Is it the fact that I sometimes like to get myself waxed? Is it the gap between my thighs or the love in my eyes? Is it the earrings that I wear or the kajal that I more often than not smear?
I dab the cigarette against the wall, toss the butt in the bin, and turn toward Sanjay bhaiya. “Ye lijiye,” I say – handing him an empty glass and Rs 100.
I turn left, then right and cross the intersection. A string of upended chairs, desks, cupboards, and dressers occupies the right end of the street. The slim entrance to the furniture market lies a few steps ahead. I chance upon my reflection in a mirror, wanting to locate my gender within my body but not in my sex organs. That would be too obvious. Moreover, it would amount to crude reductionism and I could be accused of anything but that.
Could it be my forehead or my nose? Perhaps my cleft chin? Could it be my brain? Well, that’s where I conceive gender but it’s not accessible to the outer world. How about my shoulders? Rounded by the burden of patriarchy, the shoulders make a strong case; but more than illustrating strength and valour, they characterise my drooping self-confidence. Arms? Waist? Hips? Wrists? I dismiss each and every contention along the short walk home.
I lower my head and cross the threshold. First floor, second floor… an unending flight of stairs. Left, right, left; left, right, left; left, right, left…
The rhythmic movement of my feet arrests me. A perpetual rebellion in motion. The ‘left, right, left’ pattern repeated itself, over and over again, from cycling and sprinting across the cricket pitch to walking into a salon to chop the burgeoning enterprise of my hair.
I reckon that the freedom I experience within the confines of my mind is actualised by the mobility of my feet. My blatant defiance lies somewhere in between my heel and my toe. Those eight inches of flesh, blood, and bone legitimise my existence by enabling me to move along the spectrum of gender identity, setting camp wherever my heart desires.
A soft grin adorns my countenance. I unlock the door and slip out of my shoes. I walk into the bathroom and turn the valve. The steady stream of water washes the dirt away, and I vow to never let any harm befall the magnificence of my beloved.
Moksha is a Young India Fellow from Ashoka University, currently working as a Writing and Counseling Specialist at Athena Education.
Featured image credit: Artturi Siivonen/Unsplash