When I got married, I had lots more on my plate. I inherited a bunch of my husband’s friends and relatives, and between them and work commitments, I had much less time for my older friends.

When my breasts first arrived, I didn’t quite know how to handle the sudden puberty-induced baggage. As they grew ambitiously in high school into the 36D terrain, I developed a hunch to make them less conspicuous. I thought I’d stop worrying about them in my 30s, but now we are fighting gravity together.

The hotly debated Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Bill was passed in the Lok Sabha on Monday, causing activist to declare a “Gender Justice Murder Day.” The community’s frustration is understandable, as their campaign to have a say in the Bill has gone largely ignored for months.

I was clear that if ever I had a child, I would breastfeed him. Yet it wasn’t that simple. My baby and I were unable to sustain a latch. This wasn’t how it was meant to be.

When we tell little girls that they mature faster than their male counterparts, we’re indirectly teaching them that the onus of being the “bigger person” will always be on them. This is how we create a society where women are forced to look after the men in their lives in a way that will never be reciprocated.

When I was five, my friend’s grandfather forced himself on me. I called for help repeatedly but none came. In that moment, inside that MRI machine, I was that little girl whose almost lifeless body was on the floor, being violated.

The scars across my chest are badges of my victory. They are the marks of my mother’s endless support and my father’s struggle to understand me. After years of self-doubt and breakdowns, unwanted discomfort and dysphoria, and rejection from society for who I was, I could finally learn to love myself and my body. I made it.

At some point during our undefined courtship, my friend’s attentions went from playful to predatory. I was touched in places I didn’t want to be touched. All the behaviour that would earn a male friend several swift kicks in the nads, possibly even a police complaint. But in the absence of a penis poking my anatomy, I didn’t know how to qualify my experiences as violations.

My mother refused to wear a nose ring, viewing it as yet another marker of marital status that found its way onto a woman’s body. By the time I was a teen, piercings signified a way for women to exercise their right over their bodies. I embraced this piece of jewellery as instantly as my mother had rejected it.

Blaming women for the mistakes men make is a tale as old as time. After Pakistan’s dismal performance against India in the World Cup, it wasn’t too long before cricket fans figured out where the blame for their lax attitude really lies – with “Indian agent” Sania Mirza.