In the narrow alleys of Rajshahi lives Tanim/Tania—an intersex person—two names, neither whole. A mistaken label on the birth certificate, confusion on every school form where the teacher says, “Pick one.” At the hospital registrar, papers get returned—“Doesn’t fit the rules.” And so begins a life of quiet mutilation—dreams, voice, identity cut away one by one, until breathing itself is all that’s left to call living.
The landlord raises the rent. Neighbours whisper, “What is that?” A customer-care job comes through, but the uniform policy demands a body moulded into a role the mirror no longer recognizes. On the phone, Mother says, “Don’t bring us shame.” Father says nothing—just a long sigh from behind a wooden door.
At night, Tanim/Tania writes in the diary: “I exist, but not by name.” A bracelet on the wrist, long sleeves to hide the marks left on the skin by their own hands—a quiet strategy, not a performance. No theatrics, no protest—only a deep, ceaseless ache, a storm of inner rain that never stops. One friend, careful and kind, once says, “Change your doctor. Try counselling.” On the way home, a poster catches the eye—“Protect decency.” Tanim/Tania smiles bitterly—decency always seems to be tested on their body alone.
One evening, the light turns helpless. Back from the office, they close the door and rest their forehead on the windowpane—writing and erasing their name twice, over and over. On the last page of the diary, they add a line: “Before a name, I want to be a person.” Outside, the call to prayer echoes; inside, silence spreads—no screams, no crash—just a long, exhausted quiet filling the room.
The next day, life moves on as usual. Buses stop, markets open. Only on Tanim/Tania’s desk remain a folded uniform, a pen asleep on glass, and dried ink on a diary page—witnesses to a loss without a name. The city doesn’t notice. But in the air, faintly written, lingers the whisper—“I am here.”
