Gunshots!? Who? Why?


You freeze as the door flings open. The gleaming pistol juts out of the darkness. 


Now you know who, but why?


Not one, but many probable reasons gyrate into a whirlpool inside your head, causing a splitting headache.


You know you have failed. You want to reason, but you are denied the time.




You stagger, stumble and fall.


Don’t do it, you want to say, but a faint stream of red flows out of your twisted mouth instead.


Your eyes open wide as you feel the cold of the metal on your forehead.






It was not an easy decision, it wasn’t too difficult either. I pictured myself in a red trousseau holding hands with the love of my life. 


Hopes for a better future can drive the feeblest.


I knew it had to be done. I loaded the pistol. 


The first shot was reserved for my sister. I confided in her seeking support; instead, she denigrated me and evicted me from my parent’s will.


If only I was loved…


The next was my grandmother. I deserved someone like him – kind, understanding, and loving. But for her, it was blasphemy.


If only I was allowed to marry the love of my life.


I should have felt remorse when I shot my mother. I didn’t. She loved me; but couldn’t accept me for who I was. Every breath in this body was asphyxiating. 


If only she accepted that I was a woman trapped in a man’s body…


My father’s eyes grew wide when I held the pistol to his forehead. Wasn’t it ironic? He had taught me to use it. 


If only he had parted with the paltry five lakhs for the gender reassignment surgery, the gateway to my future….


I stole to make it look like a burglary and walked out like nothing had happened. I headed to the club to celebrate. I couldn’t bring myself to. The blaring lights and the raucous music whipped me into a frenzy of fear. I pulled myself together and returned home.


I tried to be meticulous. I created a hue and cry about the unanswered phone calls; I bellowed to draw attention to the locked door. I involved the neighbors and the next of my kin and broke open the door in their presence. I ensured they informed the police while I wailed my loss. I earned sympathy and eluded the radar of suspicion. 


Sissy, they called me! My image was my shield. 




I am in a dingy room, crouched in a corner, with only my thoughts for company. The rough gray walls are as bleak as my future. 


I am here because I muffed. I couldn’t stick to one timeline. How could I, with my emotions playing havoc with my sanity? My changing statements aroused police suspicion. A few days later, I confessed because I couldn’t withstand the pressure of intense questioning.


If only I stayed consistent…




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