Mellifluous tune arrives On the wings of melody Anklets of rhythm beats Then the symphony begins
Like light shines on the cut-stones Of diamond, sparkles where it touches Sound touches the chords and shines Notes blush like cheeks, tremble like lips Tempo rises as goosebumps erupt all over Climax in the heavenly trance of euphoria
/ If music be the sound of wind, breeze on If music be the wings of bird, fly up If music be the food of love, play on If music be the spirit of life, go on /
I have always had such an admiration for womanhood, and its unfathomable powers. Mostly their brains and also their bodies. I had this deep seated awed admiration for their breasts. Their extreme attraction. The way they amazed me, with the power to feed life, produce food from their own selves. The way a baby sucks them to live, derive its only life source. Their roundedness, their supple moves, the grace and unabashedness, their eternal love.
Long till my adolescence I slept with my mom, close to her chest, and I cannot even with the best of the words available explain the feeling of that closeness, tenderness, safety, gaiety. One woman I admired deeply was my didi, she was my neighbour, 11 years older. Loved me as a little brother, cared for me as her son. I used to spend a lot of my time with her. She was a strong headed teen when I was still four-five, but I always was her secret keeper, friend and recipient of all her motherly affection and sisterly scoldings. I remember the music she listened, her school mates and crushes, and her Agatha Christie's novels. I remember when she used to dress up and do her make up at the dresser. I always used to admire her femininity. Assured and confident, non imposing and open. I used to see her bras, many of them of adorable colors, which she allowed me to see, when I opened up to her.
She was like that. Anyone could tell her anything. I told her once, I remember my agony and dilemma those days, that I recognized myself as a girl. That I want to sway my hair like she does, do my hair on my shoulder like she does. Dress up like her, wear a bra and have the power of femininity. I remember how confused she looked, seeing a 9 year old go on in such misery. But I also remember she didn't rebuke me or not take me seriously. She was not able to comprehend my situation completely but she was sensitive and did not shove my words like the elders. She was accepting and listened. She had asked me, "What do you want to do now Rosh?" And I had said "Di, I want to accept myself as I am, and come out as I am in public and I want to become like you", tearing up in the middle. She had hugged me, and promised me a way to get things done. I will never be able to express the relief I had felt in her arms. Of being understood. It was like I was living in the open for the first time- coming out of an attic of self doubt and suicidal thoughts and bullying and confirmations.
She made me her best girl friend, showing me her girl things, gossiping with me, and allaying my anxiety and watching over me. She was amused by my fixation for breasts and told me that when she was 13 and had started sprouting breasts, she was not such a fan of them... she didn't want them to grow as they made her conscious of what she wore, how she walked and ran. She told me how men had started leering and whistling at her, how she had felt uncomfortable every time her scooty jumped over speed breakers. But all this never came to hinder my love for the most pristine and beautiful creations of God.
When I was 15, and I had fights at home with parents, over my trans choices, I had made up my mind to undergo a sex reassignment surgery done. Be what I am. I remember how the two of us had researched like hell to get the details of the best place to get it done. We have zeroed in on Thailand and laughed and cried our hearts out at the cost of this huge step. Over time, my parents understood and decided to be my side, which is such a privilege.
Turning 18, I was nervous and excited to get my surgery finally when I came to know of her leaving for Canada for her research. She had tried all her might to postpone but it could not be done. We cried that night as it was our dream to see me transform.
Today, it's been a year post-op and an excruciating painful journey of recovery and self discovery, I have been blessed with all I wanted to be. I have breasts (silicon ofc) and till today I can't believe myself with these blessings and haven't met di yet but today i received the gift she sent me ... A La Perla bra (just like hers!) which I had always admired in her wardrobe!
And a note which said that it was I who made her love her feminity in true sense and appreciate the power bestowed in womanhood... I cried bitterly and kissed the note...she helped me make my discordant thoughts into a splendid poem.... And I am happy....
//A poem begins as a process of stripping myself naked and covering myself with figures of speech// ...................................................... Copyright Jaya Harfkaar 19-9-20