She felt it. She felt the first touch of a new life growing inside her. Her flesh. Her own blood taking a new form. Magical to say the least. Rapid breaths. Heart beat increased. She had crystals shining in her eyes. Her eyes reflected the happiness of her soul. That touch was the most longed touch of her life.
She never tried to know if it were a boy or a girl. She wanted to feel that herself. She wanted to be surprised by nature again. Her life changed, She had to give up her desires, her career, her dreams for her new self that was growing inside her. She happily did this all without a slightest grin on her face.
And there she was waiting for the moment when her baby was going to be placed in her arms. She wanted to know if the baby will be called Hasan or Ayesha. She wanted to see the eyes that developed inside her. She wanted to feel the TOUCH again. But all her dreams were about to shatter. All the socks she had bought were going to be useless. Because a part of her flesh produced a socially unacceptable creature. They called it transgender. She called it her heart.
Her family turned their backs towards her baby. Her society decided to spit on her baby. But the baby had the eyes of her late father. The baby had lips like her mother. But the society abandoned her. Society was confused whether to call the baby “he” or “she”. The mulla of Masjid decided not to give prayer in her ear. The family decided to claim her dead. She was stripped of all the rights the moment she was born. The mother had feelings similar to her earlier feelings.
Rapid breaths. Heart beat increased. She had crystals shining in her eyes. The only difference being her eyes reflected the sadness of her soul.
The society had torn each and every feeling of that baby even before she had her first meal. We had taken the basic right of living from a human born from a similar womb like many. We, the society, took away the right of smiling or crying even before she knew these emotions existed. The mother was not supposed to feed this untouchable creature. And just like that her first touch was going to be the last PURE touch that the baby was ever going to feel.
The transgender baby was abandoned. She had no family, just like the so-called gender. With time the touches on the body increased. The scars on the soul darkened. The eyes deepened. The feelings got dimmed. The desire to live faded. The breaths seemed borrowed. Society never changed. We never changed. “Wajood e zan” and “Himmat e Mardan'' were the only topics known to our poets. “Him” or “Her” were the only pronouns for us. We never decided to give her what was her’s. She had nothing to live for. All she had was a dark gloomy land where her voice was never going to make a difference. Where she was going to be used to fulfill lust in the darkness of nights and to beg in the lights of day. Her heart was as dark as the color of her lipstick. Her voice was like ghungroo for us, futile but full of lust. She blamed religion. She was doing shikwa to the Almighty. Little did she know that her religion granted her each and every right. Her Maalik loved her as He loved everyone else. And it was just us, the society, who else. And it was just us, the society, who had taken her life apart and torn it into pieces. She was living a life dictated by us not the religion.
She wanted to have the feeling of owning something. So when we didnt give her she decided to take what was always her’s. A piece of land. She ended her misery to own a piece of land. And here I am, while standing on the grave of nasreen, thinking ISN'T SHE BETTER THERE?
My hands are red with blood and eyes full of fear, and I still can’t believe we preferred sexuality over humanity. I am embarrassed to call myself Ashraf-ul-makhlooqaat. Are you?
They are also human & they also have the right to live