It must have been a tough fight, I tell myself. I can just picture the two of them engaged in a major wrestling match, trying to make room for themselves by pushing the other out. “There’s only room for the one of us,” they said to each other, while they fought over which of the two would get to take the empty spot next to the impatiently waiting X chromosome. Would it be another X, or would Y finally show its balls and make it through?
After a long and grueling struggle, the whistle was blown. X walked victoriously and took its place next to the original X, while Y dejectedly stepped away from the cell, ashamedly remembering a similar fight that had taken place 2 years ago, a fight his Y-ancestor had won. It blamed its ancestor for setting such high expectations. I think I blamed my brother too, for stealing the obviously stronger Y candidate and leaving me with the weak one.
But as it trudged away from the wrestling ring, it did something few people would have expected. It pulled a stunt so low, that to this day, I want to hunt it down and rip it apart.
***
Nine months later, as I came into this world crying loudly, the doctors looked down to confirm that yes, XX had in fact won.
Bur apparently, the absence of a penis wasn’t confirmation enough.
The first thing that most Indian families do to a baby girl is pierce her ears. Sometimes I think they do it at the hospital itself. Why? I suppose so that nurses can identify the baby as a girl (because it would be too much of an effort to actually lift the cloth and check).
Or maybe it’s because all girls are genetically programmed to like wearing earrings.
Or necklaces.
Or any other kind of jewellery.
Or make-up.
Or shopping.
Or short skirts.
Or heels that torture your feet.
Or cooking.
Or cleaning.
Or Barbies.
Or dolls in general.
Or playing house.
My genes must have been busy sleeping when they had that session.
Clearly, they missed out on this very important programming. I say ‘very important’ because evidently you don’t qualify as a girl unless you like all the above-mentioned things. You became an alien. Or a freak. Or as euphemisms go, a tomboy.
Even so, being a tomboy is a phase; you eventually grow out of it, and everyone applauds for you the day you step out decked in head to toe in female-worthy attire, because that day you finally come into your senses and become who you were born to be – a girl!
Because, even after 22 years, that tiny fact cannot be confirmed just by pulling down your pants (or should I say, by pulling up your skirt?).
But like I said, my XX chromosomes were so focused on catching up on their sleep, they completely missed out on that particular training session. Or maybe that loser Y drugged them with something to induce their sleep, knowing quite well what the repercussions of missing out on that one training would have on my life.
It was the revenge of the Y. That jerk!
It’s hard enough being a girl what with all the “time of the month” and the horrifyingly painful labour that men seem exempt from, but being a girl and yet not fitting into the standard description of a girl is much worse. I think I’ve lost count of the number of times people have looked at me with their mouth hanging open in shock and exclaimed, “You haven't pierced your ears?!?!”
No, I don't like making holes in my body, thank you very much. I think the fact that I don’t wear earrings is more shocking to people than the rising number of people living below poverty line.
I hope nobody leaks this information to NDTV.
No, I’m not saying I want to undergo a sex-change operation (although I do think I went through a phase during puberty when I would pray every morning in the shower that I would turn into a boy). I’m just saying that it would be a nice change to be able to be myself without having to defend my estrogen levels all the time.
Stop laughing. It could happen. One day. Evolution and everything, remember?
I’m a girl (trust me, I checked), and I don’t like – scratch that, I hate – wearing earrings.
Or necklaces.
Or any other kind of jewellery.
Or make-up.
Or shopping.
Or short skirts.
Or heels that torture your feet.
Or cooking.
Or cleaning.
Or Barbies.
Or dolls in general.
Or playing house.
Al right, fine, you can laugh.
But if I ever get my hands on that sore loser of a Y chromosome, it’ll be craving the fires of hell once I’m through with it.
The hunt continues.
