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Guntaaz sees the day on the calendar that hangs on the fridge. His mother had penciled it in the careless, nearly indecipherable scrawl of a doctor's handwriting. His stomach does a weird swoop as he reads what's been written on in bright red. It's almost like an omen.
He doesn't want to think about it like that. The holiday had always been marked with excitement, the thrill of receiving money and sweets plus being dressed up like a doll. But, as time went on and he grew older, Guntaaz felt a sense of doom as Rakhri approached. Especially as he quickly learned he did not want to be a girl.
Maybe he had always felt like that. There had never been a Moment that defined this. Just that Guntaaz preferred it when his hair was tucked in a baseball cap, baggy clothes, and celebrated when he was confused to being a boy. But, this obviously did clash with his mother. His mother had been the youngest of four brothers in her family, and said many times how pleased she was on having three daughters to make up for it. So imagine how she felt when her supposed youngest child started to stray away from feminine things. How many times was Guntaaz forced to sit through lectures about what a girl should like all the while biting his tongue?
Then, the moment came when at eighteen Guntaaz finally confessed to his parents. The explosion happened and the casualty count was high, but he eventually got his way after shouting his parents down. Guntaaz grew out his hair as normal and bought his first binders, feeling more pleased than ever. He donated all of his old clothes to his two younger sisters who were beyond delighted. He did lose friends along the way but the real ones did stay by his side; it did not escape him how almost all of their family friends stopped talking to his parents. They were not invited to the recent two parties that almost everyone went, and Guntaaz felt the hurt from both his parents settle on his shoulder. He carried that with him, hyperaware that him existing as a boy changed everything.
It also did not escape him how his parents keep slipping up. How they almost called him "kudi" before wincing and settling on his name. How his father would present him a gift-either a new hairbrush or a brighter shirt-before realizing too late who he was presenting it to. How they did not hug him or smother his face with kisses like his two sisters. It was as if as soon as he announced he was a boy, all the softness from being a daughter went away. How they even called him their daughter in public despite everything. The more he presented himself as masculine, the less his father became affectionate too.
They would have to talk about this. But, for now, it was Rakhri and the house was filled with voices. Cousins from both sides of the family had come over, and Guntaaz was avoiding them. He stood in the middle of his room, frantically looking for something to wear. It did not occur to him too late that he didn't have any Punjabi clothes for boys. It was tradition in their family to dress up in Punjabi clothes so that they could send physical copies to relatives in India. All that his closed had to offer were kurtas and dresses with flower designs. Tears of frustration prickled at Guntaaz's eyes.
A knock at the door was almost missed as he became lost in thought. "Guntaaz? What's going on in here?" asked the voice of his father, deep and familiar.
"Nothing!" Fuck, his voice had cracked. "I-I'm coming down."
"Well, we are coming in." The door opened to reveal the tall and portly figure of his father, wearing a lavender pagg and matching shirt. Also there was his youngest sister, Simra, who wore a light pink suit.
Their father's eyes widened under his bushy eyes seeing the amount of clothes on the floor. "Why did you make a mess? You know your cousins are sleeping in here."
Guntaaz faced away from the older man. He didn't want to be seen with tears in his eyes. He didn't want to be called a sissy for crying."I can't find anything to wear, Dad. We didn't even talk about this," he added, frustration thick in his voice.
"About...?"
The hesitancy in his father's tone is what sends Guntaaz over the edge. "Rakhri!" He spun around and threw his arms about, agitated. "How it would go since I'm a boy now, how our family would react. I kept waiting for you and Mom to say something, but you didn't. I mean, what are you gonna' have me do-stand to the side? Forget it, I'm not going down." He sat down on the bed hard and looked away from the older man, wanting nothing more than to cry.
"Hey," his father spoke, voice hardened in a warning. "You have family over who came all this way to see you. Look, your chachi-ji got you gifts-"
"I bet you guys didn't tell them I was a boy now." Guntaaz had not meant to sound cold but it happened. The words fell from his mouth without any softness. "You didn't want them to stop talking to you."
There's a moment of silence that goes on for too long. Finally, the sound of footsteps coming closer are head before they stop. "Guntaaz, just look at what you have," said Simran. She had sprayed on perfume and the scent of vanilla filled the air.
Reluctantly, he did-and found himself at a lost for words.
His father had placed a large gift bag on his bed. Inside, there were fine new kurtas that Guntaaz knew would fit him perfectly. One of them even had intricate designs that he could wear to parties. Also inside was a small bag of sweets and an envelope he knew had shagun in it.
"Chachi-ji gave this to me?" Guntaaz asked in disbelief. "Does-Does she know-?"
'That I'm trans? That I have an official beard? Does she still love me?'
His father only smiled and gestured to the bathroom connected to Guntaaz's room. "Just go put it on. I'll be back in a second."
Left alone, Guntaaz quickly ripped open one of the packages. He chose a lovely sky blue kurta and was just spraying some cologne on when his father returned, carrying a bundle of cloth. At his quizzical glance, his father gestured to his hair. "We can't let you go down with your hair like this. Today, mere munda will look like a prince!"
And that is Guntaaz found himself standing in the bathroom, his father carefully braiding his hair. Soon, the hair was collected carefully piled up onto his head and, with steady and warm hands, his father began tying the pagg on - a brilliant white that shined like a star against the brown of their home.
Simran was snapping pictures, doing dramatic stretches to capture insane angles. "I need to document this, its so sweet," she said, smiling widely. At just fourteen, she accepted Guntaaz being transgender easily and had even looked up articles to learn more about it. The most dedication she would do considering that the girl did not like studying.
When they all headed downstairs, Guntaaz's mother was waiting wearing a lavender dress and silver jewelry. She smiled widely at both of them, waving them down. "Hurry!" she called. "We were just about to start." She reached over to grab Guntaaz's hand-which was confusing. He didn't need to be led through his own house. But, when they turned the corner her realized why.
The living room was packed with all of his relatives-the girls and women carrying plates of sweets and Rakhri essentials, the men holding phones ready to take pictures. A red and regal couch with gold trim sat in the middle of the room with a red carpet underneath it like this was Hollywood. But, one thing caught Guntaaz's eye and made him cackle-the big bundle of balloons in the corner which announced "IT'S A BOY!" in blue lettering.
"Who-" he wheezed out, grabbing onto a nearby cousin for support. "Who got those balloons?"
"Hey, I paid good money for it!" shouted his mama-ji, causing everyone to laugh. "Its not funny! Almost twenty dollars for those stupid balloons."
"Oh man," Guntaaz chucked, wiping a tear from his eyes. "Thats rich."
His mother clicked her tongue, ushering in the last few stragglers into the room. "Alright, let's start-"
"I wanna' go first!" blurted out Simran. She and Isha, the middle child, nearly knocked themselves over rushing over to Guntaaz. His eyes widened as both girls ushered him to the red couch and forced him to sit. Their plates gleamed with what looked like decorative rakhris, glittering with sequins.
"Me too," said Isha, looking more excited than ever. "This is Guntaaz's first time doing Rakhri as the boy, so it makes sense he should go first. Plus, its our first one with our brother and new son to the family. Does that sound good, Guntaaz?"
And Guntaaz feels so blessed. He looks around at his family, all of them looking at him with bright smiles. He looks at his sisters, who stand ready and eager to celebrate today with their brother. At his parents, who will never be perfect, but must have fought so hard to make sure this day could include him. Who were learning every so slowly, and still saw him as their child.
"You said it perfectly, Isha," he told her. "That's more than good."
The feeling of the rakhri on his wrist tied by his sisters would be the best feeling in the world.