Abey was born into a household of women—a sun-baked home nestled in the heart of rural Tamil Nadu, where the walls, painted a faded blue, held the echoes of laughter, whispered secrets, and the rhythmic clatter of bangles. His father had died in an accident before he could even grasp the meaning of loss, leaving behind only stories, fragments of a man he would never meet. These stories were passed down by his mother, Nirupama, and his grandmother, Sharada, woven into the fabric of their daily lives.
As the only boy among three sisters—Anju, Anjali, and Anjana—Abey often felt like an outsider in his own home. The house was alive with the soft rustle of silk saris, the scent of jasmine oil in neatly braided hair, and the gentle hum of lullabies. His sisters were a force of nature—bold, free-spirited, and unapologetically themselves. They danced barefoot in the courtyard during the first rains, argued fiercely over stolen bangles, and shared their dreams in hushed voices at night.
Abey admired them. He envied them.
Unlike the other boys in the village, who spent their evenings playing cricket in the dusty fields, Abey found comfort in the quiet world of his sisters. He sat beside Anju as she threaded jasmine flowers into long garlands, watched Anjana apply a perfect line of kohl to her eyes, and listened as Anjali whispered tales of goddesses and queens. They welcomed him into their world without hesitation, and in their presence, he felt safe, whole.
But school was a different world altogether.
The Struggle of Schooling
Abey attended the local government school, a crumbling yellow building with wooden benches that creaked under the weight of restless children. Here, the rules were different. Boys were expected to be loud, aggressive, and rough. Girls were expected to be quiet, obedient, and demure. There was no space for someone like Abey, who fit into neither mold.
At first, he tried to blend in. He sat at the back of the classroom, hoping to go unnoticed. But his mannerisms betrayed him—the delicate way he held his books, the way his fingers moved gracefully as he wrote, the softness in his voice when he answered questions.
“Why do you talk like a girl?” one of the boys mocked one afternoon.
Abey felt the heat rise to his cheeks. He hadn’t thought much about it before. He only knew that when he spoke at home, his sisters listened with kindness, and his mother never corrected him. But here, every movement, every word was a test, and he was always failing.
It wasn’t just the boys. Even some of the teachers noticed. His Tamil teacher, a stern man with thick-rimmed glasses, frowned when he saw Abey sitting with the girls during lunch break.
“You should be playing with the boys,” he said one day. “Not gossiping like a girl.”
Abey lowered his head, ashamed but confused. He didn’t see what was wrong with sitting with the girls. They made him feel at home, while the boys made him feel like a stranger in his own skin.
His only solace was the library. It was a small, dimly lit room filled with dusty books that no one touched. There, he could escape. He read stories of queens who ruled empires, goddesses who wielded power, and poets who spoke in delicate verses. He found comfort in words, in a world where he wasn’t judged for the way he moved or spoke.
But the bullying didn’t stop.
One day, after school, a group of older boys cornered him near the banyan tree at the edge of the school grounds.
“Why do you act like a girl?” one of them sneered, shoving him backward. “You want to wear bangles too?”
Abey swallowed hard, his hands trembling. Before he could answer, another boy yanked at his bag and threw it to the ground, scattering his books. The others laughed.
For the first time, Abey felt something stir inside him—not fear, not shame, but anger.
He bent down, picked up his books with quiet dignity, and looked them in the eyes. “What is so wrong with being like a girl?” he asked, his voice steady. “My mother is a woman. My sisters are women. Are they weak?”
The boys hesitated, caught off guard. No one had ever questioned them like that before.
Abey didn’t wait for an answer. He walked away, his head held high. That day, something changed. He realized he didn’t need their approval.
Becoming Himself
At home, he no longer hid.
He let his hair grow past his shoulders, tied in the careful braid Anju had once taught him. He adorned his wrists with simple glass bangles that chimed softly with every movement. He no longer hesitated to adjust the pleats of his sisters’ saris, to walk with the grace that felt natural to him, to line his eyes with kohl that made him feel seen.
The village gossiped, of course. There were whispers behind his back, disapproving glances from elders. His uncles muttered about how his father would have been ashamed, how he was an insult to his bloodline.
But there were others, too—women in the market who smiled knowingly, young girls who admired the way he draped a dupatta with effortless elegance, and even some boys who watched him with something like longing, as though they, too, wished they had the courage to be free.
His grandmother remained silent for the longest time, watching him with a mixture of worry and something he couldn’t quite name. But one evening, as he helped Anjana get ready for a festival, carefully fixing the folds of her sari, she sighed and murmured, “You would have made a wonderful daughter.”
Abey only smiled.
He was neither son nor daughter. He was simply Abey.