I search for the keys in my bag and  after shuffling through a bunch of papers and files I finally find it. I unlock the door to my apartment. It’s dark and cold inside, it has always been this way. I switched on the lights, a few flickered for a while and then the apartment was full of brightness. But was it really?

I was folding my ironed shirts and planned on taking in some sleep once I had done the chore. After all it had been a tiring day at my workplace. It was then I heard the thunder rumble and then within a blink of an eye it started to rain. At first slowly and then with quite a force. I felt a pang in my heart just like those days. Days when I feel like there’s a void clawing it’s way into me. Days when this void brings along regrets, probabilities and guilt. On certain days when this void grows bigger and bigger and I dare to be me. On days when it rains.
I guess today is one of those days.

When it rains, I cannot think clearly as if some fierce desire had claimed my mind slowly blurring everything out. I  head straight towards the bathroom grab my razor and shave the light stubble around my face which is normally unkempt.

When it rains, I take a bath not the usual rushed one instead I take my time listening to the water trickling down on the floor. I let the void consume me completely on days like this.

When it rains, I dare to open the small silvery brown safe which once belonged to my grandmother. I shuffle through the  contents and finally bring out her neatly folded orchid pink saree.

When it rains, I drape the saree around me, something I learnt from my mother when I sat and watched her do the same. I apply the kohl with such perfection you would think I am an expert. Would you think that or would think how I being a “guy” is wearing kohl?  My mother used to think the same she still does. She always said kohl is for girls.

When it rains, I apply the jasmine ittar my grandmother gave me the year before she passed away. Though my dad never liked it he said it wasn’t manly. Was that the same reason he didn’t liked me because I wasn’t manly either? What is this so-called manliness whatsoever that restricts a person from even relishing something from their loved ones?

When it rains, I make tea for myself and stand in my balcony all decked up in an attire which you will recognise as of a woman. I know my parents would be disgusted by the mere sight of me if they were here now, just like they were disgusted back then.

When it rains, I sip my tea holding the cup with my shaky fingers and look out from my balcony. I watch the rain steadily falling and then the memories hit me slowly in bits and pieces. It’s like a tape suddenly plays in my mind, I can practically hear my father’s voice telling me how i am a filth and people like me aren’t accepted in the society. How I was ratified as a guy since my birth and the idea of thinking I belong to some other gender was not only ridiculous but also shameful. How I have let them down and brought nothing but disgrace.

When it rains, it reminds me how my mother held my hands and cried and told me to act “normal”. How I was young and indecisive. How I needed to change or we will be disowned by our relatives and the society. So I did as she told me I shaped myself into someone I am not because I loved my parents? I was scared? I didn’t want be left alone? Or maybe I had this desperate desire to be accepted even if I had to discard my real self for people who were never really mine, for people who never really cared. People who have little to no acceptance and implausible gender norms proclaiming those as privileged who followed them and disregarding the rest.

So you see when it rains, I have a faint smile on my lips and tears rolling down my cheeks. As it continues to rain the void in me fills more with regret and hurt. I stand there celebrating a battle that I didn’t get to fight. A battle for my own identity and existence. A battle which wasn’t supposed to be a battle. It was a right.