You Speak Like A Girl

New Delhi is a dry and rude city.

The air was heavy with dust.

My hair felt dry, dirty, brittle.

It was early evening.

I walked over to his room to borrow hair oil.

His room was next to mine.

You could say they were one room—

split by a locked door.

Three men stayed together in another room.

I was alone.

One of them asked

if he could sleep in mine.

I said yes—

but asked him to arrange a separate bed.

There was only one in the room.

He never came.

I thought I had offended him.

So I said—

you can use my bathroom in the mornings,

if you need.

Three men.

One toilet.

I thought I could help

so they’d make it to the meeting on time.

I was wrong.

The next night,

I asked for hair oil again.

He gave it to me.

I went back to my room.

His room was beside mine.

Mine beside his.

The walls were thin.

I heard them.

Mocking my voice.

Mimicking my tone.

Repeating what I’d said.

Laughing.

They turned my kindness into a joke.

A sexual one.

People say I have feminine traits.

That I speak like a girl.

Soft.

Quiet.

Mild.

Too soft, they say.

So it must be feminine.

They joked about fucking me.

Said I’d scream like a girl.

Said their thick, long penises

would drill my ass.

That I’d moan like a slut.

I heard every word.

I didn’t use the oil.

I didn’t know how to return it.

I didn’t know how to face them.

I was agitated.

I am agitated.

But I’ve always been agitated.

This isn’t new.

Men—whether close, or distant—

have often shared their “fascinations” with me.

Some even tried.

Agitation is my normal.

And I am a boy..