My Gender Sat in Your Class

Before college, “that” gender crisis lay forgotten
as I deliberately mislabelled it and isolated it.
Inside my suitcase, I would hide my gender —
it shrivelled up and suffocated.

My gender had gasped for air once I opened my suitcase.
I had just appeared on the doorstep of my hostel
when my gender slithered out and smelt the air of freedom.
It was time to dispel dysphoria and bid farewell.

One fine day, on the 31st of March, 2022
you appeared — bringing with you
a breeze of fresh laughter and crinkled eyes
a much-needed revival from my gender blue(s).

I had always seen you around the square
surrounded by students trailing your steps
and by then, I’d adapted to my growing body —
inventing safe methods to bind my chest and hips.

You taught with such passion — every word you spat out
began to swirl into life, rejecting patterns and structure.
My hands trembled; I often left the class to cry in a cubicle.
My gender hid behind my seat and saw the binaries rupture.

My gender learnt a lot, it grew a lot, it cried a lot, it thought a lot.
Its ears would perk up whenever anyone said “trans” —
Out of hope? Out of fear? Honestly, out of both.
Vested in me are gender, fear, hope, pride, and a chance.

About the author

I’m Maha (he/they), an undergraduate student of Literature, Cultural Studies, and Communications at Chennai. My core identity is my queerness—my asexuality and non-binary gender identity, especially. My queerness shapes all of what I write, be it poetry, academic papers, diary entries or even grocery lists. I just hope one day I get a mastectomy and cut my hair to shoulder length. Queer self-expression is indeed difficult to find in a conservative nation and space.

Photo by Nguyen Phan Nam Anh on Unsplash.