Call Me Mohan - A Mother’s Race, A Father’s Fear, A Child’s Truth

 

Image by AI

She wasn’t running away — she was trying to be seen.

Story: S A Spencer

Author of Popular Fictions: The Pink Mutiny, The Black Waters, Dream In Shackles

The last bell rang, and the corridor of Shantiniketan Public School burst into its usual chaos—children running, bags swinging, laughter echoing. Ms. Radhika Sen stepped out of the staff room just in time to hear two boys whispering near the staircase.

“Did you see Meena today?” one boy said.

The other snorted. “She’s not Meena. She’s Mohan.”

A third boy frowned. “Who is Mohan?”

The first boy grinned. “Meena is Mohan.”

Before Radhika could intervene, she saw the girl they were talking about—Meena, short hair, borrowed boys’ half‑pants, a cricket bat tucked under her arm—being pulled away by her father, Ramesh. His grip was tight, his jaw clenched. Meena looked back once, her eyes wide, silently pleading for help.

Radhika felt a chill. Something was wrong.

XXX

 

Meena’s transformation had begun quietly a month earlier.

Her real name was Meenakshi, but she had shortened it to Meena years ago. Now she wanted something else.

“When we play cricket, call me Mohan,” she told the boys one afternoon.

They laughed at first, but she didn’t. She said it again, firmer this time.

She took small coins from her mother, Sarla, and bought toy cars, plastic guns, spinning tops—never dolls, never pink ribbons. She refused bangles, refused bindis, refused anything that glittered.

Her cousin’s old boys’ shirt became her favourite possession. She hid her school skirt under the bed and wore the shirt whenever she could.

Her best friend, Ritu, noticed the changes.

One day during lunch, Ritu whispered, “In a year your chest will grow… how will you hide that?”

Meena froze.

Another day, Ritu asked, “Can you stop your monthly period when it starts?”

Meena shook her head, confused and frightened. She didn’t understand why her body would betray her.

Her mother brushed it off. “She’s just a child. She’ll understand when she grows.”

But her father heard neighbours gossiping.

"Your daughter is becoming like a boy. You need to control her, or she might end up marrying a girl when she grows up. They're called lesbians, a word that cultured people wouldn't even utter in front of family."

He never spoke to Meena about it. He only shouted at Sarla.

“Explain to her what is right and wrong! She’s ruining our name!”

Meena heard him muttering one night: “If she keeps this up, I’ll have to take some strict step.”

XXX

The counselling room felt too quiet.

Meena stood just inside the doorway, gripping her cricket bat so tightly her knuckles turned white. She had never been called here before. Teachers’ rooms were places where children were corrected, scolded, reshaped into what adults wanted.

And adults had never liked what she was.

Radhika pulled out a chair. “You can sit, Meena.”

Meena didn’t move.

Her heart thudded in her chest. Every time someone called her by that name, it felt like a reminder — a reminder of the person everyone insisted she was, the person she didn’t feel like at all.

Radhika softened her voice. “You’re not in trouble. I just want to talk.”

Meena swallowed. Talking had never helped. Talking only made things worse. Talking made her father angry, made her mother cry, made neighbours whisper.

She sat slowly, still hugging the bat.

Radhika waited. She didn’t push. That made Meena even more nervous — adults usually rushed to tell her what she was doing wrong. This silence felt strange.

Finally, Radhika said, “I’ve noticed you like wearing the boys’ shirt. And sitting with the boys. And playing cricket with them.”

Meena’s throat tightened. She nodded, barely.

“Can you tell me why?” Radhika asked gently.

Meena opened her mouth, then closed it. How could she explain something she didn’t understand herself?

She tried anyway.

“I… I don’t know,” she whispered. “It just feels… better.”

Radhika leaned forward slightly. “Better how?”

Meena stared at her shoes. They were dusty from the playground. She liked them that way — rough, used, not polished like the girls’ shoes.

“When I wear the skirt,” she said slowly, “it feels like… like I’m pretending. Like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes.”

She hesitated, searching for words she didn’t have.

“And when I sit with the girls… I feel like I’m in the wrong place. Like I’m not supposed to be there.”

Her voice cracked. She wasn’t crying — not yet — but she was close.

Radhika didn’t interrupt.

Meena took a shaky breath.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I feel like… like I’m a boy inside. But I don’t know why. And I don’t know if that’s allowed.”

Her eyes darted up, terrified she had said something forbidden.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to become,” she added quickly, as if correcting herself. “I don’t know what I’ll be when I grow up. I just know I feel wrong… like my body is going to change into something I don’t want.”

She looked down again.

“Ritu said my chest will grow,” she murmured. “She asked how I’ll hide it. I don’t know. I don’t want it to grow.”

Her voice trembled.

“She asked if I can stop my period. I don’t even know what that is. I don’t want any of it.”

She hugged the bat tighter, as if it could protect her from her own future.

Radhika’s eyes softened, but she didn’t rush to reassure. She let Meena speak.

Meena’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Ma’am… is something wrong with me?”

Radhika opened her mouth to answer — but before she could, there was a sharp knock on the door.

A familiar voice.

Ramesh.

“Is she inside?”

Meena froze.

Her fingers slipped on the bat handle.

Her breath caught.

Her world shrank to a single point of fear.

XXX

Radhika checked the clock again. She had asked for both parents. She had emphasised it. She had even written it on the slip Meena carried home.

But when the door opened, only Ramesh stepped in.

He didn’t greet her. He didn’t sit. He stood with his hands behind his back, as if he were inspecting a government office.

Radhika forced a polite smile. “Mr. Ramesh, thank you for coming. We can wait a few minutes if your wife is on her way.”

He frowned, as if she had said something absurd.

“My wife?” he repeated. “Why would she come?”

Radhika kept her tone neutral. “It might help if both parents are present. These conversations are easier when the whole family—”

He cut her off with a sharp laugh.

“I am the man of the house. I take decisions. I feed the family. My wife does what I say. She doesn’t need to come here.”

Radhika felt a small knot tighten in her stomach. She had met many fathers like him, but something about his tone made her uneasy.

He finally sat, but only halfway, as if ready to stand and leave at any moment.

“I’m sending my girl to school,” he said, “so she can finish high school and find a suitable match when she becomes a woman. She should be a housewife. Not to earn money. Not to become something strange.”

The words landed like stones. Radhika felt heat rise in her cheeks — not from shame, but from the way he said “my girl,” as if Meena were a commodity being prepared for sale.

She took a slow breath.

“Mr. Ramesh,” she began carefully, “your daughter is showing signs of something many children experience. It’s not misbehaviour. It’s not rebellion. It’s a part of identity. Earlier, people hid these feelings because society didn’t allow them to speak. But now—”

He raised a hand sharply.

“Stop. I don’t want to hear these modern ideas.”

Radhika kept her voice steady. “It’s not modern. It’s human. Some children feel different from the gender they were assigned at birth. They don’t have the words for it, but they feel it deeply. Meena—”

He slammed his palm on the table.

“Don’t say that name in front of me.”

Radhika froze.

He leaned forward, eyes burning with a mix of anger and fear.

“She is behaving like this because of teachers like you. Shameless women who talk about… these things… with men who are not their husbands.”

Radhika felt the insult like a slap, but she didn’t react. She had learned long ago that reacting only fed the fire.

He continued, voice rising.

“If teachers like you stayed at home and cooked instead of filling children’s heads with nonsense, the world would be better. Girls would be girls. Boys would be boys. And families would not be ruined.”

Radhika’s fingers tightened around her pen. She kept her face calm, but inside she felt a tremor — not of fear, but of the weight of the moment. This was the wall Meena had been crashing into her whole life.

She tried again, softer this time.

“Mr. Ramesh… your daughter is not doing anything wrong. She is trying to understand herself. She needs support, not punishment.”

He stood abruptly.

“I don’t need your advice. I know how to handle my child.”

He turned toward the door.

Radhika rose instinctively. “Please, just listen—”

He spun around.

“You listen,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “If she doesn’t stop this behaviour, I will make sure she does.”

Radhika’s breath caught.

There was something in his tone — something cold, something final — that made her skin prickle.

He opened the door.

And standing right outside, small and trembling, was Meena.

She had heard everything.

Her eyes were wide, her face pale, her fingers gripping the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.

Ramesh’s expression hardened.

“Come,” he said.

Meena didn’t move.

He stepped closer.

“I said come.”

She flinched.

Radhika took a step forward, heart pounding.

“Mr. Ramesh—”

He grabbed Meena’s wrist.

She let out a tiny gasp.

And before Radhika could reach them, he pulled her out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

XXX

Ramesh came home that evening with a calmness that felt unnatural.

He washed his hands, changed his shirt, and sat on the charpai as if nothing unusual had happened at school. Sarla, relieved to see no anger on his face, brought him tea.

“She’s inside,” Sarla said softly. “Should I call her?”

Ramesh shook his head. “No need. I’ve been thinking… maybe we should take her to the Durga temple in the neighbouring village. The priest there is wise. If she prays properly, all this strange behaviour will go away.”

Sarla’s face brightened with hope. “Yes… yes, maybe that will help. The goddess will guide her.”

Ramesh nodded, eyes lowered so she couldn’t read them.

After dinner, he called out, “Meena, come. We’re going to the temple.”

Meena stepped out slowly, clutching her cricket bat. She looked at her mother, then at her father, unsure which face to trust.

“Leave the bat,” Ramesh said sharply.

She set it down.

He lifted her onto the back of his bicycle. Sarla stood at the door, waving, relieved that her husband was finally taking an interest in their daughter’s wellbeing.

“Bring some prasad on the way back,” she called.

Ramesh didn’t answer.

The bicycle disappeared into the darkness.

Hours passed.

Sarla waited on the veranda, glancing at the road every few minutes. The night grew colder. The insects louder. The village quieter.

Finally, around 10 p.m., she heard footsteps.

Ramesh walked into the courtyard alone.

Sarla’s heart lurched. “Where is she?”

He wiped his forehead dramatically. “I went to pee behind the temple. When I came back, she was gone.”

“Gone?” Sarla’s voice cracked. “Where?”

“How would I know?” he snapped. “Maybe she ran to her friend’s house. That girl… what’s her name… Ritu. Let her stay there. She’ll come back in the morning.”

Sarla looked towards the dark road, worry tightening her chest. “But she has never stayed out at night…”

Ramesh waved her off. “Stop panicking. She’s stubborn. Let her learn a lesson.”

He lay down on the charpai, turning his back to her.

Sarla didn’t sleep. She sat on the veranda, clutching her dupatta, eyes fixed on the road, praying to every god she knew.

Then, sometime close to midnight, a scream tore through the village road.

A neighbour’s voice, shrill with panic:

“A girl was found in the construction pit! Someone come quickly!”

Sarla’s blood turned to ice.

She didn’t wait for details. She didn’t wait for Ramesh. She didn’t even put on her slippers.

She ran.

 

XXX

Sarla ran barefoot down the village road, her saree trailing behind her like a torn flag. The night was thick, the moon half‑hidden behind clouds, and the only light came from the flickering bulbs outside a few houses.

People were gathering near the construction site at the edge of the village — a half‑built community hall with deep pits dug for the foundation. Lanterns bobbed in the darkness as neighbours rushed forward.

Sarla pushed through the crowd, breathless.

“What happened? Who is it?” she cried.

A woman pointed toward the pit, her voice trembling. “Someone found a girl down there… she’s alive, but shaken.”

Sarla’s heart hammered against her ribs. She stumbled toward the edge, gripping the rough cement blocks for support.

Down below, illuminated by a single lantern, sat Meena.

Her hair was dusty, her knees scraped, her clothes smeared with mud. She wasn’t crying — she looked too shocked to cry — but her eyes darted around wildly, searching for something familiar.

When she saw her mother, her lips trembled.

“Maa…”

Sarla collapsed to her knees, tears spilling down her face. “Meena! Oh god, Meena!”

Two men helped lift the girl out of the pit. Sarla wrapped her arms around her daughter, holding her so tightly it was as if she feared Meena might vanish again.

Then she looked up — and saw Ramesh standing a few feet away.

He wasn’t rushing forward. He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t even pretending to search.

He stood frozen, his face pale, his hands shaking at his sides.

Sarla stared at him, horror dawning slowly, like a curtain being pulled back.

“Ramesh…” she whispered. “What… what happened?”

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

Finally, in a voice barely audible, he said, “I didn’t want to… I just thought… if she got scared, she would stop all this… I didn’t mean to hurt her…”

Sarla’s breath caught. The world tilted.

“You… you left her there?” she choked.

Ramesh’s eyes filled with tears. “Everyone kept saying… she’s ruining our name… I thought… I thought fear would fix her…”

Sarla pulled Meena closer, shielding her with her body.

The neighbours murmured, some in shock, some in anger.

A distant sound broke through the whispers — the rumble of a jeep approaching, headlights cutting through the darkness.

The police.

Ramesh’s face crumpled.

He took a step toward Sarla, voice shaking. “Please… don’t let them take me. I made a mistake… I’ll change… I swear I’ll change…”

Sarla looked at him — really looked — and for the first time in her life, she didn’t see her husband.

She saw a man who had almost destroyed their child.

The police jeep stopped. Doors opened.

Ramesh’s breath hitched.

XXX

Ramesh was arrested but granted bail. The case didn’t disappear, but it softened when neighbours testified that Meena had been found alive and that he had stayed at the site, shaken and crying.

On the advice of the police counsellor, and with a quiet push from Radhika, he began attending sessions in town. At first he sat with his arms crossed, saying little. Over time, he listened more than he spoke—about shame, about fear, about how love can be twisted by what people say outside the house.

Weeks later, he came to the small rented room where Sarla and Meena were staying with Sarla’s sister.

Meena sat on the edge of the bed, her hair cut short again, wearing a loose shirt and track pants. Her cricket bat leaned against the wall.

Ramesh stood in the doorway for a long moment before stepping in.

“I don’t understand everything,” he said quietly. His voice had none of its old sharpness. “But I want to try. If you want to be called Mohan… I’ll learn.”

Meena looked at him, searching his face for the usual anger. She didn’t find it. She didn’t smile either. She just gave a small, cautious nod.

Sarla’s eyes filled. She moved closer and wrapped her arms around both of them, pulling them into an awkward, trembling embrace.

In the months that followed, the school agreed to relax its uniform rules. Students who needed small adjustments were allowed them without fuss. Meena—Mohan—sat where she felt most at ease. Some children still whispered, but fewer than before. Radhika kept a quiet watch, stepping in when needed, guiding when asked.

One afternoon, Mohan sat under a neem tree in the schoolyard, a notebook open on her lap. She sketched a figure with short hair, a boys’ shirt, and a cricket bat held high.

The drawing wasn’t perfect. The world around her wasn’t either.

But the smile she drew on that face was soft and real.

Because for the first time in her life, she wasn’t invisible. Someone had finally chosen to see her.

✦ Author’s Note ✦ This story is inspired by real events and reflects the emotional struggles many children face when their identity is misunderstood. If this moved you, please like, share, comment, and subscribe — your support helps these stories reach more hearts. ✨ Some scenes and images were enhanced using AI tools for creative clarity.

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