a sweet simmering ensues
when i use my mother's makeup.
exalting my epiphanies
alluding to the awe of
my conception crowned.
when i wore my mother's dupatta
my brother told me i looked pretty;
my mother told me i should change
because if dad saw me,
all hell would break loose.
he came back home later
that night and he screamed a
word that i didn't know about.
i was angry and sad, and
cried a lot, thinking that
make-up was a girl's muse.
my father told me, 'i
should man up.' i nodded
for i was numb with pain.
looking back, i laugh
because i was so wrong.
me dressing up didn't anger him.
me being a 'chakka' did.
mom told me that i should have
changed but 6-year-old me asked,
'why? you can apply make-up.
why can't i?' she was stunned, and
had no answers. she was ashamed,
that i could tell. she told me
to turn heartbreak into
kindness. and turn the toxic
curses to sweet words.
that day on,
i used my mother's saree to
fulfill my wishes of dressing up.
i learned not to cry. i learned
that dressing up wasn't wrong.
my brother taught me to turn the healing
words into a garden of love.
'some people are an elixir;
some are a venom.
you must learn to distinguish
between who will stain you
with crude poison and who will
enrich your soul with their aura.'
i stand today, loud and
proud, of who i am. long gone
was the boy who cried infront
of his father. there stood a young man
who did what he loved.
he dresses up, paint his nails,
glams up himself and makes his hair.
my dad didn't remember, when he saw me,
what he called me earlier.
yet, his harshness made a
permanent scar, that sat above
my eyebrow, reminding me of
the times he didn't accept me;
when he called me a 'hijra'
and demeaned me.
i look back and realize
how thankful i am. life's
battles will continue on and on
but me, i will still be the man
who liked dressing up.
the len(z) 