October slipped away in a flurry of activity, and the cold November wind brought with it a nip in the air. While part of me rejoiced for our daughter, a twinge of fear lurked in the corner of my heart. “Will she be happy?” I wondered, “Will marriage bring her true fulfillment as a woman?”

 Rathi had returned from the States a few months ago, not just with a new degree in Creative Writing, but with news that she had fallen madly in love with an American boy. “Dad, he’s gorgeous. We’ve been good friends right through the course, and he popped the question soon after we graduated.” “I’m truly happy for you my girl. But how well do you know each other? Does he know all about you? Marriage must not be taken lightly. There should be no secrets between you.” “There are none Dad. I can assure you that Danny knows everything about me, and he’s willing to make an unconditional commitment to me. You’ll see what a great guy he is when you meet him.”

 Rathi was our only daughter and we wanted the best for her. The normal parental urge to give her a lavish wedding had us in a tail spin. But she was quick to veto our plans. She insisted on a registered marriage. “This will be the legal tie that binds. It is the only thing that matters. No walking around the fire knotted to a man’s dhoti, and trailing behind like a piece of baggage. Most girls of my age are living in with partners and are quite happy.” “Then we must thank our lucky stars that you want to be legally wedded. We must have brought you up right.” She had given me a hug. “Trust me. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

 Of course there were the usual rumblings in our family circles. “This comes of sending girls to study abroad before marriage. They become bold and brazen, and want to ape the West in every way.”

 The registration had taken place that morning. Danny and Rathi exchanged garlands and fed each other with pedas, in the presence of the Registrar. Then they signed the marriage register, which was endorsed by two witnesses. It was all over in fifteen minutes. They both looked deliriously happy, and went off for a drive in an auto rickshaw, as Danny was fascinated by this contraption.

 My wife Sita began to sob as she held on to my arm.
“A lifetime to bring her up and then within a few minutes, we hand her over to a stranger. I feel very scared. Will he make her happy I wonder? She’ll be so far away from home that we won’t even know if things go wrong.” I could feel a lump in my throat. I too was both sad and worried. Rathi was the apple of our eyes. We had showered all our love on her. She had filled the cup of our loneliness with her very presence. Now she would leave us and cleave to her husband. But I didn’t want Sita to know that I too was worried. “Children are given to us only for a little while. Then they must fly the nest, and we parents have to let go,” I consoled her. “Now we must rush home and get ready for the party this evening. At least she hasn’t objected to that.”

 Our lawn had been turned into a fairyland of twinkling lights. The caterers were busy laying out the tables. There were single red roses in long stemmed vases on every table. The arrangements seemed perfect. I went indoors to change, and I heard Sita and Rathi squabbling over the bridal finery. “You’ll do as I say this once,” Sita said, “I want you to look like an unforgettable dream tonight.” “But Mum, this sari is far too gorgeous already. Decking up in all this jewellery would make me look like a Christmas tree.” “Darling, will you listen to your mother one last time? I want no more arguments.”

 When Rathi came down for the reception, there were exclamations of admiration from all the guests. “Gorgeous!” they said, “She looks like a princess.” Danny too did us proud. He was dressed in an off-white sherwani, delicately embroidered around the neck. “A lovely couple!” I heard people say, as they pelted them with confetti and wished them a wonderful life together.

 I felt pretty emotional that evening. My eyes inadvertently filled with tears. As the guests tucked into the sumptuous feast laid out, I quietly disappeared into my sequestered nook in another part of the garden. I couldn’t help but think back to that evening twelve years ago.
 My car had broken down, and I was forced to take the local suburban train at Churchgate. It was the evening rush hour and the trains were jam packed, with people even precariously hanging out of the doorways. I managed to squeeze myself into a compartment. But it was just as difficult to get out at Bandra, with all that pushing and shoving.

 The commotion on the platform drew my attention.
“What’s happening here?” I asked no one in particular.
A young girl was lying on the platform groaning with pain. No one bothered to help her. “What happened?” “She was pushed out of the train.” “Why?” “She probably got into the wrong compartment,” somebody sniggered. A policeman stood around unconcerned. “Aren’t you supposed to help the poor girl?” I asked. “I’m on duty,” he retorted and walked away.

 I lifted her carefully, but she groaned with every movement. She was a slim little girl who couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. I admitted her to the Municipal hospital at Bandra. She said she had no relations in the city. So I gave the hospital my address and telephone number, which they could use in an emergency.

 The following day, I took Sita along for a visit.

“Are you in pain?” Sita asked.

“Yes. I have a bump on my head and my back hurts very badly.” “Where do your parents live?” “They are no more. I came to the city to find a job.” “Why did they push you out of the train?” I asked. “Did you try to pick someone’s pocket?” “Oh no. The compartment was overcrowded, and I was standing in the doorway.

I got pushed out when people alighted in a hurry.”

 We were already in our forties, and we both lamented the fact that we never had any children. Here was a homeless girl who could do with some help. Being stranded alone in a city like Mumbai was no fun. “Until you are better and can find something to do, you can stay with us,” invited Sita. “We have plenty of room in our house.”

 And so Rathi came to stay with us. It wouldn’t be wrong to say that we fell in love with her. She was just sixteen, with a smooth lovely complexion and a becoming smile. She was shy and didn’t have much to say. In fact, she liked to be left alone.

 Sita and I talked it over for several days.

“Why don’t we adopt her?” she asked, “Rathi could be the daughter we never had.” We broached the subject to her at dinner the next night, and her unexpected response threw us into a dither. She burst into tears, her sobs convulsing her slight frame. “You won’t want me anywhere in your sight if you know the truth…… I am a hoax. Even my parents disowned me. Later, unable to bear the shame, they committed suicide.” “Calm down,” I said, “Tell us what’s bothering you …….Did somebody really push you out of the train or were you trying to kill yourself?”

 For answer, she turned her sad eyes at me imploring for compassion. Sita got up and threw an arm around her shoulders. “Tell us what’s hurting you….” “I’m not a girl,” she blurted, “I’m a girl trapped in a boy’s body. In a little while my voice will begin to crack, and I’ll start getting hair on my upper lip. Then I won’t be able to pretend anymore.” The silence in the room was profound. Neither of us could speak. It was like a clap of thunder hitting us. We had never suspected anything like this. I remembered the dancers I had seen in the Philippines and Indonesia. One could never tell they were anything but girls. We were right in the middle of a dilemma. “When do you want me to leave?” she asked after a while, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Stay with us and be our daughter. We will see how we can help you find your gender identity,” Sita assured her. I was glad that she decided in the girl’s favour.

 Rathi had already studied up till high school, though she hadn’t taken her final exam. Sita encouraged her to pursue her studies privately. Distance Education proved a real boon to Rathi.
 
 Meanwhile, I heard of a famous andrologist in Hyderabad, and took Rathi to him. He was a man with a heart of gold – somebody who empathized truly with his patient. “I’m glad you have brought her to me,” he said, “Now let’s make it our combined responsibility to see that she has a healthy body and a mind at ease.”

 The programme he outlined was long drawn out. It would take prolonged psychological counseling for gender alignment. There would be a regime of cross gender hormone therapy. Finally she would have to undergo surgery for breast implants and construction of an artificial vagina. Electrolysis of facial and body hair would also be needed.

 Sita and I spent sleepless nights weighing the pros and cons, and counting the costs. It would run into many lakhs. “We’ll become paupers,” Sita said, “But I think Rathi came to us by Heaven’s decree. This will be the genuine test of our love for her.” So we scrimped and saved and cut down on our personal expenditure. It took five whole years for the doctor to pronounce Rathi a woman. “I feel confident to face the world now,” Rathi said, “I would like to go to a proper College.”

 We could only marvel at her robust spirit. We gave her the support she needed, but without her high resolve, the transformation could never have happened. She was very comfortable in her identity.

 After graduation, she came home one day waving a paper. “Listen my dears, I’ve got a full scholarship to go to the States for further studies. Someday I’m going to be a writer. I want to make you proud of me.” And now she had not only completed her course but returned with a soul mate.

 I was shaken out of my reverie by her voice.
“Dad, what are you doing here sitting all by yourself? The guests are leaving.” She embraced me. “Be happy for me,” she begged, “This is my finest hour.”

 As Danny and Rathi went off on their honeymoon, Sita and I clung to each other. Our large house was up for sale to tide over our accumulated debts. We would soon be moving into smaller quarters. We had no regrets. The words of Booker T Washington echoed in my ears like a sweet benediction. “The one thing worth living for and dying for is the privilege of making someone more happy and more useful.” “Yes dear,” Sita said, “We may have emptied our pockets. But thank God we never economized on love.”