Reassigned by Fate

Reassigned by Fate

A Novel by kavya

The wind rushed past Aditya Menon’s face as he sped through the streets of Kochi on his Royal Enfield. The night was cool, the air tinged with the salty scent of the sea. He loved riding at this hour—when the roads were quieter, and the city lights reflected off the damp asphalt.

His friends had warned him to slow down, to wear his helmet properly. But Aditya had always been reckless. "Nothing will happen," he would laugh. "I know these roads like the back of my hand."

That night, he wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t distracted. He was just… free. Until he wasn’t.

As he turned a sharp corner near Marine Drive, a lorry’s blaring horn shattered the night. The headlights blinded him. The screech of tires filled his ears.

Then, everything went black.

---

He drifted between pain and unconsciousness. Distant voices called his name. Hands moved him, lifted him. The sound of sirens howled in the background.

Someone was crying.

Then, silence.

Aditya woke up to a dull beeping sound. His body felt like it was on fire. Every breath hurt. His vision was blurry. The white ceiling of a hospital room came into focus. The scent of antiseptic filled his nostrils.

He tried to move, but pain shot through his body.

A soft voice spoke. "Aditya?"

He turned his head slightly. His mother sat beside him, her face pale, her eyes swollen from crying. His father stood near the window, his hands clenched into fists.

"Ma…" His throat was dry. The word came out as a whisper.

Tears welled in his mother’s eyes. She stroked his hand, her touch trembling. "You’re awake, beta… thank God…"

The door opened, and a doctor walked in. A middle-aged man with a kind but serious face. He held a clipboard, glancing at Aditya before speaking.

"Aditya, can you hear me?"

Aditya nodded weakly. "What… happened?"

The doctor sighed. "You were in a serious accident. You suffered multiple fractures, internal injuries… and severe trauma to your lower body."

Aditya’s heart pounded. He couldn’t feel his legs properly. His body felt heavy, foreign. "Am I… okay?"

The doctor hesitated. "Your life was in danger. We had to make a difficult decision to save you."

His mother looked away, covering her face. His father’s jaw tightened.

Aditya swallowed hard. "What do you mean?"

The doctor took a deep breath. "Your reproductive organs were severely damaged in the accident. The injuries were beyond repair. There was significant blood loss, and… the only way to save you was to perform gender reassignment surgery."

The words hit him like a punch to the gut.

The machines kept beeping. His mother sobbed into her hands. His father didn’t move.

Aditya blinked, his brain refusing to process what he had just heard. "What… what do you mean?"

The doctor’s voice was calm, but firm. "Medically, you are now… a woman."

Silence.

The words didn’t make sense. They sounded like something out of a nightmare. A joke. A mistake.

Aditya tried to sit up, ignoring the pain. His breathing grew rapid. "No… that’s not… I’m not—"

"Aditya, please," his mother begged, reaching for his hand.

His father finally spoke, his voice cold. "We had no choice."

Aditya shook his head. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. His body felt wrong, but not like this. Not like this.

Tears burned his eyes. His hands gripped the sheets. His chest rose and fell unevenly.

The doctor sighed. "I understand this is overwhelming. We will provide therapy and support. You are still you, Aditya."

But was he?

Aditya squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to wake up from this nightmare.

But the pain was real.

And so was the truth.

Aditya didn’t sleep that night.

He stared at the ceiling, his mind replaying the doctor’s words. His body felt heavy, unfamiliar. The beeping machines, the muffled voices outside, the sterile hospital smell—everything seemed distant, unreal.

He clenched his fists. Maybe this was a bad dream. Maybe he would wake up, and everything would be normal again.

But the pain was real. And so was the truth.

Morning light seeped through the hospital curtains. His mother sat beside him, dozing off. His father had left hours ago without a word.

A nurse walked in, carrying a tray. She smiled gently. "Good morning, Aditya."

He didn’t respond.

She set the tray down and adjusted his IV. "The doctor will be here soon. We’ll need to check your progress."

Aditya still said nothing. He kept staring at the ceiling.

"Do you need anything?" the nurse asked.

Yes. My life back.

He shook his head.

A few hours later, the doctor arrived. He checked Aditya’s vitals, then sighed. "You need to start moving, Aditya. Your body needs to heal, and staying in bed won’t help."

Aditya scoffed. "My body? What body?"

His mother flinched. The doctor remained calm. "I know this is difficult. But you have to face it."

Face what? That I’m not me anymore? That my life is ruined?

The doctor gestured to the nurse. "Help him to the mirror."

Aditya’s breath caught. "No."

"You have to."

His mother touched his hand. "Beta…"

He pulled away.

The nurse and the doctor exchanged a glance. Then, gently but firmly, they helped him sit up. His muscles ached. His head spun. He wanted to scream.

They guided him to a full-length mirror near the bathroom. His legs trembled. His hands gripped the wheelchair’s arms.

"Take your time," the doctor said.

Aditya clenched his jaw. He shut his eyes.

Just look. Just get it over with.

He forced himself to open them.

A stranger stared back.

The face was his… but not. Softer. The jawline less sharp. The eyebrows thinner. His lips, fuller. His skin, paler from the weeks in the hospital.

And his body…

Bandages covered his chest. His hospital gown hung loose, but it couldn’t hide the changes. His shoulders seemed narrower. His waist, slightly curved.

His breath hitched.

No. No, no, no.

"This isn’t me," he whispered.

His reflection said nothing. Just stared back with unfamiliar, broken eyes.

He gritted his teeth and grabbed the IV stand for support. His heart pounded. His chest rose and fell unevenly.

"This. Isn’t. Me."

His hands shook. His stomach churned.

Then, before anyone could stop him, he grabbed the mirror and pushed it with all his strength.

The glass shattered.

"Aditya!" his mother screamed.

Nurses rushed in. The doctor grabbed his arms. Someone pulled him back to the bed.

He struggled. "I want my body back! Give it back!"

Tears blurred his vision. His breath came in gasps. His chest ached. His whole world spun.

Then, darkness took over.

He woke up hours later. His mother sat beside him, her eyes swollen from crying. The broken mirror was gone.

He turned his head to the side, staring at the wall.

"Aditya…" his mother’s voice trembled.

He didn’t respond.

She reached for his hand. "Beta, please. Talk to me."

He swallowed. His throat was dry. "What’s the point?"

Tears slipped down her face. "You’re still my child."

"No, I’m not."

His voice was hollow.

His mother sobbed softly, but he didn’t look at her.

He just closed his eyes, wishing he could disappear.

Aditya didn’t sleep that night.

He stared at the ceiling, his mind replaying the doctor’s words. His body felt heavy, unfamiliar. The beeping machines, the muffled voices outside, the sterile hospital smell—everything seemed distant, unreal.

He clenched his fists. Maybe this was a bad dream. Maybe he would wake up, and everything would be normal again.

But the pain was real. And so was the truth.

Morning light seeped through the hospital curtains. His mother sat beside him, dozing off. His father had left hours ago without a word.

A nurse walked in, carrying a tray. She smiled gently. "Good morning, Aditya."

He didn’t respond.

She set the tray down and adjusted his IV. "The doctor will be here soon. We’ll need to check your progress."

Aditya still said nothing. He kept staring at the ceiling.

"Do you need anything?" the nurse asked.

Yes. My life back.

He shook his head.

A few hours later, the doctor arrived. He checked Aditya’s vitals, then sighed. "You need to start moving, Aditya. Your body needs to heal, and staying in bed won’t help."

Aditya scoffed. "My body? What body?"

His mother flinched. The doctor remained calm. "I know this is difficult. But you have to face it."

Face what? That I’m not me anymore? That my life is ruined?

The doctor gestured to the nurse. "Help him to the mirror."

Aditya’s breath caught. "No."

"You have to."

His mother touched his hand. "Beta…"

He pulled away.

The nurse and the doctor exchanged a glance. Then, gently but firmly, they helped him sit up. His muscles ached. His head spun. He wanted to scream.

They guided him to a full-length mirror near the bathroom. His legs trembled. His hands gripped the wheelchair’s arms.

"Take your time," the doctor said.

Aditya clenched his jaw. He shut his eyes.

Just look. Just get it over with.

He forced himself to open them.

A stranger stared back.

The face was his… but not. Softer. The jawline less sharp. The eyebrows thinner. His lips, fuller. His skin, paler from the weeks in the hospital.

And his body…

Bandages covered his chest. His hospital gown hung loose, but it couldn’t hide the changes. His shoulders seemed narrower. His waist, slightly curved.

His breath hitched.

No. No, no, no.

"This isn’t me," he whispered.

His reflection said nothing. Just stared back with unfamiliar, broken eyes.

He gritted his teeth and grabbed the IV stand for support. His heart pounded. His chest rose and fell unevenly.

"This. Isn’t. Me."

His hands shook. His stomach churned.

Then, before anyone could stop him, he grabbed the mirror and pushed it with all his strength.

The glass shattered.

"Aditya!" his mother screamed.

Nurses rushed in. The doctor grabbed his arms. Someone pulled him back to the bed.

He struggled. "I want my body back! Give it back!"

Tears blurred his vision. His breath came in gasps. His chest ached. His whole world spun.

Then, darkness took over.

He woke up hours later. His mother sat beside him, her eyes swollen from crying. The broken mirror was gone.

He turned his head to the side, staring at the wall.

"Aditya…" his mother’s voice trembled.

He didn’t respond.

She reached for his hand. "Beta, please. Talk to me."

He swallowed. His throat was dry. "What’s the point?"

Tears slipped down her face. "You’re still my child."

"No, I’m not."

His voice was hollow.

His mother sobbed softly, but he didn’t look at her.

He just closed his eyes, wishing he could disappear.

Aditya—no, Adhira—didn’t leave her hospital bed for days.

She refused to speak to the doctors. She ignored the nurses. She turned her face away whenever her mother tried to comfort her.

She wasn’t ready.

Wasn’t ready to face the world. Wasn’t ready to face herself.

Most of all, she wasn’t ready to face her father.

Her father hadn’t returned since the first day.

At first, she thought he was just busy. That he needed time, like she did.

But when her mother came one morning, red-eyed and exhausted, Adhira knew the truth before she even spoke.

"Papa isn’t coming, is he?"

Her mother flinched. "He just needs—"

"Time?" Adhira scoffed, staring at the ceiling. "Or an excuse?"

"Adhira—"

"Don't call me that," she snapped. "That’s not my name."

Her mother looked away, gripping the edge of her sari. "Beta, your father… he doesn’t know how to handle this."

Adhira laughed bitterly. "What’s there to handle? His son died, right? That’s what he thinks."

Her mother bit her lip. "Don’t say that."

"Why not? It’s true."

Silence.

The kind that weighed heavy in the air, pressing down on them.

Her mother sniffled, then reached into her bag. She pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper and placed it on the table beside the bed.

"What’s that?" Adhira asked, not really caring.

"A letter. From your father."

Adhira’s throat tightened. "I don’t want it."

Her mother sighed. "Please, just read it once."

She left it there and walked away.

Adhira stared at it for a long time before finally picking it up.

Aditya,

I don’t know how to say this. I don’t even know if you’ll read it.

But I need to tell you the truth.

When the doctors told us what happened, I wanted to scream. Not because I was angry at you, but because I was angry at the world. At fate. At God.

I don’t understand this, Aditya. I don’t know how to accept it. And that makes me a coward.

I wish I could sit beside you and pretend everything is fine. But I can’t. Not yet.

I need time.

I don’t know if I can ever see you the same way again. And I hate myself for that.

But I do know this: I still love you. I always will.

I just don’t know how to show it anymore.

Papa.

Adhira clenched the letter in her fists.

She wanted to hate him. Wanted to scream at him, call him selfish.

But deep down, a part of her understood.

She wasn’t ready to face this. How could she expect him to be?

She wiped her eyes roughly.

Her father had left. That was his choice.

But what about her?

What choice did she have?

The first time Adhira stepped outside her hospital room, she felt the weight of a thousand eyes on her.

Whispers. Stares. People pretending not to look, but still looking.

She walked past a nurse who had been friendly before. The woman hesitated, then looked away.

Adhira’s hands clenched into fists.

Once, people looked at her with admiration. Envy, even.

Now? They looked at her like she was something to be pitied.

Something unnatural.

She gritted her teeth and kept walking.

She wasn’t ready.

But she couldn’t hide forever.
The first time someone called her Adhira, she didn’t respond.

The name felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else. Not her. Not Aditya Menon, the boy who once raced through the streets of Kochi, laughing at the wind.

But Aditya Menon didn’t exist anymore.

At least, that’s what the world wanted her to believe.

Her mother was the first to use it.

"Beta, you need to start adjusting," she said one evening, sitting beside her hospital bed. "The doctors said it will help if you—"

"No," Adhira cut her off, staring out the window. The sun was setting, casting an orange glow over the city.

"It’s just a name," her mother said gently.

"No," she repeated, her voice sharper this time. "It’s not just a name. It’s… everything."

Her mother sighed, reaching for her hand. "You have to move forward."

Adhira pulled away. "I don’t even know who I am anymore."

A week later, she was discharged from the hospital.

The world outside felt different. Or maybe she was different.

Her father hadn’t come to pick her up. Her mother held her hand as they stepped into an auto, but the warmth didn’t reach her heart.

Kochi was still the same—busy streets, honking vehicles, the scent of freshly fried banana chips from a roadside stall.

But everything felt distant. As if she was watching her own life from behind a glass wall.

At a traffic signal, the auto driver glanced at her through the mirror. His gaze lingered a second too long.

She shifted uncomfortably.

She had never felt this kind of scrutiny before. As Aditya, she had been invisible in a way. Just another college boy, blending into the crowd.

But now?

People noticed.

And she hated it.

Her home didn’t feel like home anymore.

The moment she stepped inside, she felt the emptiness. The silence. Her father’s absence.

Her old room was the same—cricket posters on the walls, a shelf filled with books, the guitar he hadn’t touched in months.

Her mother hesitated at the doorway. "I can shift your things to the other room—"

"No."

She stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

She sat on the bed, staring at her reflection in the mirror across the room.

A part of her expected to see Aditya.

But Adhira stared back.

She hated the sight.

Days passed. The world outside kept moving, but she stayed still.

She didn’t leave her room. She barely ate. She didn’t answer her mother’s worried calls.

Then one evening, she heard a knock.

Her mother entered, holding a small wooden box. She sat beside Adhira, placing it between them.

"Your grandmother gave me this when I was born," she said softly. "It holds all the little things that made me… me."

Adhira didn’t respond.

Her mother opened the box. Inside, there were tiny bangles, a baby anklet, an old photograph. And a yellowed piece of paper.

She picked it up carefully. "It’s my naming ceremony card. My parents chose my name with so much love."

Adhira stared at the card, then looked away. "Why are you telling me this?"

Her mother turned to her, eyes gentle but firm. "Because I want you to choose for yourself."

Adhira blinked. "What?"

"You don’t like ‘Adhira’? Fine. But you need a name, beta. You need something that’s yours."

Silence filled the room.

Adhira swallowed, her fingers curling into her lap.

She wanted to scream that she already had a name. That she didn’t need another one.

But deep down, she knew.

Aditya was gone.

And if she didn’t claim something for herself, the world would keep choosing for her.

She looked at her mother, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Can I think about it?"

Her mother smiled through her tears. "Take all the time you need."

That night, for the first time in weeks, Adhira didn’t fight sleep.

She wasn’t ready to accept her new name. Not yet.

But maybe… just maybe… she was ready to find it.

Adhira had never felt afraid to step outside before.

As Aditya, the streets had belonged to her. She had walked through them with ease—laughing with friends, grabbing a chai from the roadside shop, riding her bike with the wind in her hair.

Now, standing at the threshold of her home, she hesitated.

Her mother squeezed her hand. "You don’t have to do this today."

Adhira exhaled slowly. "I do."

Her mother nodded. "Okay. But I’ll come with you."

Adhira shook her head. "No. I need to do this alone."

Her mother hesitated but didn’t argue. "Be careful."

Adhira nodded, then stepped outside.

---

The street was just as she remembered it—children playing cricket, shopkeepers yelling about fresh vegetables, old uncles debating politics outside the tea shop.

But something was different.

It wasn’t the world that had changed. It was the way the world looked at her.

She could feel the eyes. Some curious. Some confused. Some filled with quiet judgment.

She swallowed and kept walking.

---

She reached the tea shop where she and her friends used to gather after college.

The owner, a kind old man named Ravi Uncle, looked up as she approached. His eyes widened slightly, but he quickly masked his reaction.

"Aditya—" He stopped himself. Cleared his throat. "Adhira, right?"

She flinched at the name.

But she nodded. "Yeah."

He wiped his hands on his apron. "Long time no see. Chai?"

She hesitated. Then, to her own surprise, she nodded.

He poured a steaming cup and placed it in front of her.

She took a sip, letting the familiar warmth calm her nerves.

"You look… different," Ravi Uncle said after a while, his voice gentle.

She let out a dry chuckle. "That’s an understatement."

He smiled. "But you’re still you."

She looked up, startled.

He shrugged. "Maybe the outside changes. But inside? The same kid who argued about cricket and politics over tea is sitting right here."

Her throat tightened.

Maybe he was just being kind. Maybe he didn’t understand.

But for the first time in weeks, she felt a little less invisible.

She finished her tea and placed the cup down. "Thanks, Uncle."

He nodded. "Come back anytime."

She stood up, adjusting the dupatta her mother had insisted she wear.

And as she stepped back onto the street, the weight on her chest felt just a little lighter.

---

But the world wasn’t always kind.

As she walked further, she heard murmurs.

"Is that…?"

"It can’t be."

"Poor family. What a disgrace."

Her fingers clenched. She forced herself to keep walking.

She knew this would happen. She had prepared herself for it.

But hearing it—feeling the whispers follow her like shadows—hurt more than she expected.

She turned a corner, and suddenly, she stopped.

A group of boys stood near the pan shop. Her old friends.

For a moment, she forgot to breathe.

They hadn’t noticed her yet. They were laughing, shoving each other playfully, just like they used to when she was one of them.

One of them.

She almost turned around. Almost walked away.

But then, one of them looked up.

It was Vikram—her closest friend since school.

His laughter faded. His eyes widened.

Adhira’s stomach twisted.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then, Vikram took a step forward. "Aditya…?"

Her heart pounded.

This was it. The moment she had feared the most.

She took a deep breath. Forced herself to stand tall.

And then, in a voice steadier than she felt, she said—

"It’s Adhira now."