This is neither a start nor an end. But, since I am telling you my story from this juncture, let it be the prologue. The prologue to my past and my present. Here there is no room for the future because I am done planning the uncertainty. Yet, you and I both know that we will continue to do so. The stories I tell from now on, are parts of mine and that of others. By others I mean, those whom my life’s course has affected and who have affected mine. This is not a place to blame, neither is it one to reason. It’s a narrative; a narrative of personal multitudes and hearsays. I don’t know if I am being brave by sharing my version of the truth. Or if I am being a coward doing it all under the cloak of a pen name, if not absolute then for partial discretion.
There is hope, I won’t deny that, or else why would I try to document? I chose to narrate so that you would simply listen. I tried talking, conversing, debating, and even quarrelling and arguing at times. Yet none of them seems to work. So, I will narrate my story of being born in Kerala and then growing up anywhere but Kerala, carrying the burden of cultural shock, shame, and pride. My story of being a girl and growing into a woman while occupying a body that was assigned male at birth. My story of dealing with casteism at home, even though I seldom found casteist oppressors outside. My story of growing up in defence campuses and yet feeling defenceless. And then transitioning into civilian life. Along with all these stories of mine, there will be those of people with whom I felt closely associated. Even though our struggles were poles apart, I could see some universal similarities in them. Or maybe I was simply coping by seeing what I wanted to see so that I felt like I belonged.
– Cynthia Linwoods.
The Cynfull Voice 