I wanted to know what it was to have breasts, heavy, big ones; like her. Vidya. What it was to have half the men in a country of a billion and a quarter human beings after you, crazy for you, mad about you. To be plus size. I wanted to know what it meant to be a woman and have sex, open your legs, be entered, and engulf. What it meant to envy men. Be subtle even to be cruel. Say lies even to retain a man friend by stroking not his shaft but his ego.
I wanted to know what it meant to have the scent of a woman. But most of all, I wanted to know how it was to be a woman and let a man into your heart, soul, spirit, will and mind. To let him have you, take you, entirely. And to do it back to him. To overcome penis envy, that way. To rape him. I would never know.
I was not Vidya. I was a man. I already had a penis so no envy felt I about it. And I would never know what it was to smell like a woman or drive men crazy or feed someone the breast or undergo the pain and joy of having a child or having a womb or the experience of menstruating or masturbating the way a woman does. I did not know if it was a tragedy or the desire was comic or it was, like life, a bit of both, both tragic and a comedy, in short; a tragicomedy.