In the narrow alleys of Comilla lives Tamanna—a transgender woman—who spends her days sewing and her nights counting the city lights through the cracks of her window. The name she was born with had trapped her in the wrong skin; when she changed it, the world began cutting away her dreams, her voice, her will. Her landlord says, “Rent’s going up. People complain.” The shopkeeper smirks, “Sister or brother?”—his laughter slicing through her skin and straight into her soul.
Her mother, stifling tears over the phone, says, “Come home, we’ll accept everything.” But that “everything” means standing outside her own name, her own truth. At work, a new supervisor whispers, “You don’t fit in here.” Days later, a letter arrives: “Position redundant.” Tamanna realizes the city only wants her as a shadow—silent and unseen.
At night, she sits by the rooftop edge, gazing into a cracked mirror. The light plays hide-and-seek—on one side, the smear of lipstick; on the other, darkness. In her diary, she writes, “I exist, yet I don’t.” Friends have drifted away—someone once said, “It’s a problem to be seen with you.” Standing in hospital queues, she hears the whispers: “What is that?” The papers may carry her correct name, but the eyes around her don’t follow the law.
One stormy night, the rain doesn’t stop. Tamanna presses her forehead to the glass and whispers, “Will anyone ever call me by my name?” As the room sinks into darkness, the darkness within her deepens too. She hides her scars beneath a long scarf, showing no one. When morning comes, she sits again at the sewing machine, as if stitching her torn life back together—thread by fragile thread.
The next day, a fresh slogan appears on the neighborhood wall: “Protect decency.” Tamanna walks past it quietly. The city wants to erase her presence—but on the street, a small shard of glass catches the sunlight. She picks it up. It’s not a whole mirror, but it holds a bit of light—just enough to see her name still written there.
