What is my name, you ask?

I see the shadows of feet outside the locked door, there are some murmurs too. I hear two men speaking, more like haggling. One of the voices is familiar, it is Ramu-maama, but whose is the other voice? Must be a new customer! He sounds fierce in his tone and I hear Ramu-maama telling him how adjusting I am in bed, and that I can tolerate any sort of abuse.

He opens the latch and comes in. No, there is no smile, not even a sign of pleasant nodding - he is big, his eyes are red and seems to be fuming in anger.

Well, he is also a type!

If there is anything that I have learned in these many years living in shacks like these, then it is the fact that there are different types of customers, and each one comes with his own needs. Sometimes, there is a she coming in too! I am taught to serve the customers as per their needs. If I refuse, they beat me, drag me by my hair, and sometimes stick up a lean iron rod into my parts. I am not given many days for healing, the maximum of five to six days after all the excessive bleeding and then I have to go back to serving my customers.

Why am I here, you ask me? Was I trafficked?

Well, no!

I was born wrong! At least, that is what they said. They - my family.

Now, I am different. The man in front of me has paid for me because I am different. He locks the door and removes his belt. No, he is not undressing, instead he is rolling the end of that belt to his fist. I can sense his heavy breathing from a distance. And even before I can make sense of what is happening, he begins whipping me. I scream and groan in pain. The lashings do not stop for quite some time. Tired, he sits on the worn out cot while I sit in the corner sobbing and swallowing my pain. He now asks me to strip. I do as I am told, with shivering legs I stand and with trembling hands I undress myself. Maybe, he will now want to fuck me. But no, he flogs me more. My arms, legs, thighs, back, stomach and chest are swelling with pain. He doesn't seem to stop, and my shrieks get louder and louder.

I wake up in a different room. My body is still aching and I can't recall anything that happened after the lashings. I must have blacked out and turned conscious only now. I am not allowed to writhe in agony for long. If not serving the customers, then momentarily I have to attend to Ramu-maama.

Ramu-maama is not like other men, he is gentle, cunning but gentle. It was he who had helped me become different. He showed me the real world as opposed to the hypocritical world  into which I was born. I was made to wear clothes that my parents thought would best suit me, and in family get-togethers and sleepovers, I was asked to sleep with my cousins. If my cousins had gone to the late night shows, then I had to sleep with Ramesh-chitthappa.

Ramesh-chitthappa was that family member who was loved by everyone. He was a star with the kids for he made them laugh with his amusing antics, and for the adults, he was an example of success and happiness. A small provision store, a wife who brought dowry with her and a son to take his business forward - what more qualifications did Ramesh-chitthappa require, he had everything that the others would envied him for.

It was in one of those family sleepovers that I slept next to him. And suddenly in the middle of the night my sleep was disturbed. I felt a hand stroking me, and soon I was turned on my stomach and I felt something big penetrating into my butt hole. It was painful, my mouth was forcefully closed, and the penetration went deeper and deeper. After a while, I was released, and I silently teared up because of the extreme pain.

I was scared, and I was ashamed. It felt like I had done something terribly wrong, and this remained a secret with me.

Many times since then, Ramesh-chitthappa has forced himself on me and I have always remained quiet. In the beginning, it was painful, but then as days went by, I began to enjoy it. Perhaps, this sense of enjoyment itself became too much a burden and it had to continue being a secret.

Now when I think about it, I realise that I was ashamed to tell anybody about the wrong that was done to me simply because I found it pleasurable.

I spent my college years in a hostel, those years that showed me how different I was, and I realised what fascinated me the most. I liked boys. As much as I was leaning to liking this boy, Chandan, he began reciprocating my feelings. We realised that we were different and that we wanted to let this world know we were different. He would guard me from other bully boys and sit with me during lunch. They all made fun of us, all the other boys. But, somehow, we continued to sail together. We were real good friends and we were there for each other.

One day, I saw Chandan arguing with the hostel warden. The warden was pushing his body against Chandan, and Chandan was vehemently throwing him back. That night, Chandan wanted to be alone, and I complied. I did not realise until the next day that a sad Chandan's face was the last memory I would have of us together. The police was called, and charges were made against the deceased. They called him names and that he had committed suicide. The truth was never out, it was conveniently brushed under the carpet.

I was banished from my home when my folks learned that I was different. Without an aim, I walked. I spent many weeks without food and shelter until I walked passed this small office. It was called "Soul-to-Self", rather an unusual spin from the normative journey. I walked in and I was welcomed. Soon, I was taught the practices of their community, and I was given a choice to fully transform if I wanted to. I chose to be different and I persevered to attain that different identity in both mind and body.

I was now given a new name. But I was the same individual with the same talent of creative writing. I found no employment, because the world had a problem with me. My community could not sustain me for long, they had already helped me enough, it was about time that I began fending for myself.

Weeks of starvation and unjust arrests took me from place to place. Right now, I am at Ramu-maama's place. I am not sure how long I will have to serve here. Every place that I had been to gave me different names. I have learned to live a life under each name.

What is my name, you ask?