They say I have become a woman, a state-less woman, an invisible woman, a second class citizen, a third class existence, a blob of some sort gliding through public vehicles and busy streets. Thisparticular blob happens to also have two protruding blobs that constantly get grabbed and a gaping hole that is persistently abused. I do not know how I became this blob.

I can distinctly remember having a face as a child. Because every once in a while, an uncle would pull my cheeks. My mother would struggle with my knotted, frizzy hair. Everyone would say how much my nose resembled my father’s. And there was always this peculiar ringing in my left ear. My first recollection of recognising my own face is when I came across a mirror on the Godrej almari  in my parents’ room. It was staring right back at me with its beady eyes and pressed lips. I had stolen my mother’s pote lying on one of the almari compartments and had worn it the entire day underneath my shirt with such secret pride.

And that is how I remember having a neck. It was always an odd feeling, recognising that part of my body. It perched right between my two shoulders, holding my head rather precariously. As a child, I was scared that my neck would break and my head would roll off the hill and land on the playground where my friends and I used to play hide and seek.

If you were to look at me now, surely you would look right through me. This blob-like existence is a translucent one—just the right amount of viscosity to hold up but not enough to make you certain of its presence. Sometimes, the viscous matter gets bloody and I have seen the way you cringe away. I no longer need to look into a mirror because you reflect my insecurities.

The playground near our school was unchartered territory for me, called off-limits by wise adults. So every evening after school, my hands and feet would find their way to this land of unfathomable adventure. Nobody stopped me from hanging upside down from the jungle-zoo or swinging in a mad frenzy from the swing. Nobody told me to control my speed or curb my enthusiasm. It was me, my face, my neck, my limbs, my body and my entire being swinging to and fro, believing that I had an identity just because I could feel the force of the wind against my body. That my face, my neck, and my limbs were enough of an evidence of my existence.

But you tell me that I have become a woman. My matter does not matter to you. So to prove you wrong, I have decided to disrobe myself. Look at my face, my neck, my limbs, my breasts, and my vagina—and if you can, look beyond them. My body parts are just a manifestation of your ideals because my face is not a face, my neck is not a neck, my limbs are not limbs, my breasts aren’t breasts, and my vagina is not a vagina. My body parts are not me. Learn to construct my body the way I have learnt to deconstruct it. You think my body is my identity and label it as “woman” given you have observed me grow with such close scrutiny.

But you are mistaken. My body isno longer relevant. I strip it off its physicality so that you cannot dump your meanings onto my body. I will burn this body just like your law was burned but the wrath of this nameless bonfire will leave behind charredhistory. Your attempt at stripping away my existence is futile.

Your ambiguous language, discriminatory laws, and deep distrust of my body is no longer relevant. I have transformed into a blob not because I have given in to your lack of empathy but because the agile strength of being a blob is empowering to my soul.  

Every day, I will adorn this blob of me with nothing but a deep shade of red. I will choose to become state-less because your state of mind is corrupt. It rots and reeks of the vilest design: human body equates to identity and existence. No, humanity equates to identity and existence. I spit at yourcitizenry because I am not a citizen of a region or a nation. I am of thisuniverse and this universe is of me.