Ash Wears Their Name

Yash Bisht

Ash dreamed they were part fish. Their weightless body was cutting water like a bullet. The cold stream engulfed them. It tickled their legs. Their legs? 

The covers were being pulled past their naked thighs. The nightdress must have ridden up at night. 

“Wear trousers to sleep!” their mother hissed, “There are guests in the house.” 

Ash groaned and flipped over on their stomach. 

“Wake up! You’ve missed all of your brother’s haldi for God’s sake.” 

Mother was upset. Her voice was comically high-pitched. It was shish-kebabing their eardrum, eustachian canal, and brain.  Actually, that would’ve been better. A skewer to the brain would be a jolt of unbearable pain but then! Sweet nothing. Ash felt a sharp smack on their exposed butt cheek. Shock and shame jolted through their body. They hurriedly pulled down the nightdress, crouching on the bed like a wounded animal. 

The sound of people chattering drifted through the bedroom window. Mother nodded toward a hideous yellow anarkali dress laid out on the chair. The sight of the gold brocade made Ash’s armpits itch. They flung a towel over their shoulder and slunk into the bathroom. Might as well get it over with.

After their shower, Ash squeezed the wet ringlets curling around their neck. Mother had video-called them every weekend. She worried they would cut their hair again so close to the wedding; mourned the Dabur Amla hair oil she had wasted on them over the years; reminded Ash that they were pretty and shouldn’t fight it.

Ash stood before the yellow dress and touched the gold gingerly. They poked the chest padding and rubbed the coarse underskirts.  Don’t fight it. 

In one swift motion, they hauled the bulky anarkali over their shoulders. They plugged their earlobes with the heavy gold earrings. They flew out of the room without a single glance in the mirror.

*

A hot afternoon was melting into evening. Ash was eight years old, lying on their stomach, propped up on their elbows, solving sums. No. Drawing. 

The math exercises written out by their mother marched from the front page—authoritative and neat. Ash’s doodles marched a counter-attack from the back cover—haphazard and secret. Pencil figures with breasts and beards, merfolk, aliens, dryads, naked creatures so recognizably human,  but not quite. They knew this scared their mother. They knew she found it obscene. But Ash couldn’t help but draw these beings, their lore, their relationships. Ash yearned for the freedom of the back pages.

They’d been beaten for doodling in their exercise books before. Maybe these drawings were the very first compulsion. Maybe, they were the first time Ash “came out”. But they would have to come out again and again, like a ritual, like penance, like a plea. Please, see me and don’t look away.

*

“Arrey wah, Ashvini! She’s become sooo pretty, na?” Someone cooed, as Ash pushed through the sea of relatives crowding the hallway and living room. The wedding guests poured out into the verandah, the driveway and the garden. Their cars and scooties lined the sides of the road. 

A breed of uncles had gathered, right next to two trucks, in front of a neighbouring plot of land. Wedding tents, tables, chairs, flowers, a stage—everything had to be set up in this plot by sundown. Ash frowned at how these men (who’d never carried a plate to a kitchen) advised the workers on carrying bamboo poles.

Closer to the house, the nauseating scent of haldi was sticking to the air. It reminded Ash of that cold and slimy paste of besan, haldi, and curd which Mother used to rub all over them during summer vacations to get rid of their bronze tan. It would get in their hair, their mouth, their nostrils… Ash shuddered. The gold brocade cut into them. They held their arms, away from their torso, like hockey sticks. They tried to focus on the pleasant scents. The smell of fresh pooris. They eyed the buffet table that had been set up in the driveway. There were pooris, aloo saag and raita. Ash was almost falling into the breakfast queue when their mother pulled them back.

“Ashvini, there’s some pooja samagri in the bedroom in a white plastic bag. Go get it.” 

Ash threw a doleful glance at the steaming pooris. On their way to the house, they saw Vineet. He was sitting on a mooda with his feet on a paraat. He was surrounded by adoring aunties who were painting him yellow. 

“Ash, good morning!” he beamed and motioned for them to come over. 

“Ashvini, you have not applied haldi to bhaiya yet?!” someone tutted. 

Ash shuddered at the thought of touching the stuff. Vineet came to their rescue. “Ash did.” 

“Ladieees! Photo!” 

Seemingly out of nowhere, a photographer appeared. Ash winced. They hated that word. Ladies. To their dismay, everyone huddled closer. Two aunties flung their arms around Ash’s waist. Ash held their breath. 

“Say Haldiii!” 

“HALDI!” 

The shutter clicked seven times and slowly the bodies drifted away. Ash breathed.

 “Help me clean up?” Vineet asked, picking up the paraat and the mooda. 

“—Ashvini!”

Mother was scowling at them. She was holding a large plastic bag full of flowers, coconuts, and boxes of kaju-katli. Oh, the samagri. 

“Honestly,” Mother hissed, leaning in, “Are you part of this family or not? We’re all so busy. I asked you for one thing—” 

“—Ash is helping me right now, Ma,” Vineet interjected. 

Mother shot him a look, shook her head, and walked off. Ash could feel their cheeks burning up. Vineet held out his hand. They took it. He led them into the house, dismissing anyone who tried to stop them with a, “Got to bathe!” “Need a bath!” 

*

Once in his room, he latched the door and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Advance and a lighter from his laptop bag. He nodded toward the bathroom. Inside, he latched the door, and lit a cigarette. He passed it to Ash. 

“How you holding up?” he asked 

“Weird dreams but you say? You’re the star today.” 

“You know me,” Vineet grinned, “I love the spotlight.” 

Ash passed the cigarette back. 

“How’s Nandana?” 

“Stressed. I think her family is crazier than ours, if you can believe it.” 

“What I can’t believe is that you’re signing up for double the crazy. Why can’t you guys just keep dating instead of going through this expensive, nonsense, spectacle?” 

“I’d use up all my savings in OYO hotels,” Vineet took a long drag, “You know no one will rent to an unmarried couple in this town.” 

“Hmph,” Ash scratched their armpits, “Fuck this itchy dress.”

They sighed and pulled out their phone. While scrolling through Insta stories they caught a glimpse of themself in Neepa’s story. Their posture was doing them no favors.

Thank the universe for finstas. None of their friends followed this account, or Neepa, or any of the other relatives. If River saw Ash like this? Imagine! Well, Saanjh would tell Ash that they still looked cute. Almost all their queer friends led two different lives, sometimes more. They would understand. 

Ash made a mental note to not share any photos of themself from the wedding anywhere. They shook their head, straightened up, clicked their phone shut.

“Let’s go.” they said, taking a few puffs of the cigarette and dropping it in the commode. 

“I actually do need to shower.” Vineet pressed down on the flush.

Ash took his bottle of Old Spice from a shelf and dabbed some behind their ears. The musky base calmed their nerves. 

“Fine. See you in the jungle.”

Ash marched toward their room. They were determined to rip off the dress. 

They saw Mother standing outside their door, arms crossed across her chest. She was waiting for them. Ash took a detour up the stairs and hid on the roof. 

Soon, they were spotted by Gunjan Bua. In a sickly sweet voice, she asked if Ash could carry her sleeping children to a bedroom. Deepa Chaachi handed them a pile of gifts to carry into the living room. Then, another pile. When Ash slumped into a chair to catch their breath, Mother spotted them and told them their inactivity was making the family look bad.

“I’m going to my room.”

Ash found a few bored children in there. They handed the kids a pack of UNO cards and shooed them out. They latched the door; stripped off the dress. Fucking finally.

Ash read about twenty pages of The Jasmine Throne and drifted off to sleep.

*

Ash floated out the window. The tent had been erected. They hovered over the sea of red, yellow, and white—not too high up, yet somehow unnoticed. Some mausi was feeding her children, some neighbour was reprimanding hers, a gaggle of didis were giggling with henna hands over their mouths. Vineet’s drunk ex-classmates had found the dance floor. One of them was already lying down and doing a naagin dance.

Mother was nodding solemnly to what the priest was saying. Ash floated down and tugged at the priest’s choti. He flailed and looked around furiously. The lightness of Ash’s laughter sent them higher and higher. 

In a tree on the plot, away from the festivities, was a red-vented Bulbul and a nest. A chorus of baby birds lifted their naked heads. The bulbul shoved an earthworm down one baby's throat. Another baby bird wiggled and presented its bottom. The bulbul pulled out a hard dark mass from the baby’s cloaca, threw its head back, and swallowed it. Then, it flew away to forage. 

Ash floated there for a while, watching the parent bird flitter to and from the nest. The babies—mostly mouths and shivers—disappeared and emerged. Suddenly, somewhere, a hammer hit an anvil. Bang! Bang! Bang! 

Ash woke up to loud banging on the door. They stumbled to unlatch it. Their mother poured in. “Why did you latch the—HEY BHAGWAN—where are your clothes?! Are you mad?”

Their mother sat on the bed cradling her face in her hands. “I don’t know when you’ll grow up, Ashvini. I really don’t.”

Ash slipped the kurta on. The collar felt like a garland of stinging nettle. Mother wiped her cheeks with her pallu. Ash held her. 

Then, Mother held out a ghaghra-choli with a gold blouse, a kajal, and a pair of earrings. 

“Here. For tonight.” 

Ash’s heart sank. The outfit smelled like a crowded saree shop. The dupatta was painfully transparent. Their stomach would be exposed for everyone to squeeze. The ghaghra was pepto-bismol pink and the whole choli  was made of the same material as that anarkali dress’ golden collar and arm holes! The itching would be all over their chest and back.

“ I can’t wear it. Can I just wear this anarkali dress again?” 
“Nonsense!” their mother stood up, “We’re the groom’s family. Don’t make things difficult. Put it on without a fuss. I need to go. There is too much to be done and your father is already at the bar. Clearly, I’m not getting any help from him tonight.” 

She paused and turned to Ash. 

“Ashvini, promise me, no drinking tonight. Not even a sip. People will see and people will talk. I’m serious. When anyone says anything about your child, it cuts to your heart. You will learn that someday.” 

Ash winced. 

“I’d hoped it was just teenage hormones making you act out. I thought it’d pass. I know you have some… complexes. I don’t pretend to understand. But beta, please, please, main haath jodti hoon, don’t make this day about you. It’s Vineet’s day.” 

She placed the ghaghra-choli on their lap and left. 

*

The month before boards, during study leave, Ash was filled with sapphic longing. They missed seeing Sneha at school everyday. They hated being hounded to study every second. It seemed like the only place they could be alone in the house was the bathroom. 

That morning, one month before the board exams, the shower was scalding hot. Suddenly, pounding fists shook the bathroom door. Ash wrapped their towel, hurried out, dripping water everywhere. Mother was holding their phone. Ash wasn’t wearing their glasses but they could see the blurry blue bubble of text. Their heart sank. There was shrieking, fists raining down on their wet back, and the same words echoed over and over:

“Right before your boards?!” “Isliye school bheja tumhe?!” “Mujhe yakeen hi nahi hota!” “If you go down this path, I will never be able to help you, NEVER!”

The text they had sent Sneha shone like a beacon. They had spent an hour, the previous night, crafting it in their notes app first. That text would never get a reply, ever. The damning sentence: I luvd playing d game wd u… u said I kiss better than Gaurav… will u b my gf?

In spite of the harangue, Ash was almost relieved that it was all out there now. They had been naive. The elephant can stand in the room for years and be willfully ignored.

*

Ash sat on the edge of the bed for a while. They stared at the art covering most of the walls. Every dream since they were five had been rendered in charcoal and paint. Their gaze drifted to a water stain on the wall between two paintings. They were six when they had realised it looked like an old man with a pipe. Vineet was the first person they showed it to. 

Vineet was also the first person they told. They had stumbled over their words and struggled to use new vocabulary that barely approximated who they were. He had not asked any questions. He’d just asked if they were happy. They were. They pulled up the chat with him.

You care what I wear? 

Wear what you want!

Someone should 

This sehra is heavy :( 

Catch me if I fall :P

Always 

Ash opened their suitcase and fished a few things out. They went into the bathroom and plugged in their hair clippers. Front to back, they ran it down their scalp. The buzzing drowned out the pounding of their heart. As the weight of the hair disappeared, their back straightened and their head lifted higher. 

They quickly hopped into the shower to wash off any remnants. A halo of black tresses marked where they’d stood. 

They fished out their tiny jewellery box. In went their septum ring! In went their tongue barbell with a middle finger! In went the earlobe studs, three on each side: a ladybird, a dragonfly, and a beetle on the left; a whale, a seahorse, and a starfish on the right. 

The ladybird was from a former lover. Once, after sex, Ash had told her that ladybirds were called God’s Little Cows in Ireland. Then, long after the break-up, Ash had bought themself the beetle and the dragonfly—subconsciously, completing a curated set.

Each piercing was a memory of a loved one. River had given them the middle-finger tongue piercing on their college graduation day. “So you speak up and bite your tongue less,” River said. 

Saanjh had gifted them the whale, seahorse, and the starfish on their eighteenth birthday. Ash once mentioned that in an alternative life, they would’ve been a marine biologist. Saanjh had remembered. Ash proudly carried these milestones on their body.

They picked up a worn and yellowed crepe bandage. There was one in every bag they owned. They wound it around their chest, careful not to wrap too tight, careful to keep the spear of the safety pin on the outside so as to not stab their flesh if it accidentally flew open. They covered up with a soft cotton tee. It was a hand-me-down from Sneha. 

Ash put on their jeans and their dusty chappals—the only footwear that cradled their flat feet perfectly.

Then, they picked up the kajal their mother left behind. With a light hand, they drew wispy hair on their upper lip, following the soft fuzz that already grew there. They looked at themself in the mirror. The budding moustache, the roundness of their skull, the flat chest, the little beasts lining their ears. They rubbed their hands over the fresh buzz cut. They walked out of the house and into the plot with the wedding tent. 

Most of the guests were mobbed around the chowmein, aloo-tikki, and gol-guppa stalls. Ash could see the stage where Vineet and Nandana were sitting on red velvety thrones. Mother was flitting around the pair like an anxious butterfly. Vineet saw Ash first. He smiled really wide and called them over. Mother didn’t see them until they had scaled the stairs and were right on the stage. Her eyes widened but she couldn’t make a sound.

“Nandana! I know you’ve met before but I’d like to re-introduce them. This is Ash! My sibling and the coolest person I know.”

***

About the Author

Yash Bisht (they/them/theirs) is a queer South-Asian writer. They love theatre, languages, music, and mushrooms. When they’re not honing their crafts, Yash can be found eating fruits, practicing somatic awareness, and being whimsical. They have lived in Uttarakhand, Singapore, and Oregon. They currently live in Pune, Maharashtra.Yash holds a B.A. degree in English (Fiction Writing) from Lewis & Clark College. Their poetry has been published in The Bangalore Review, fifth wheel press, and Thirunangai press.