It was on a humid Kannur afternoon that Amala Ajithkumar Parammal first traced her identity in the silk folds of her mother’s dupatta. They say some stories bloom quietly, in corners where nobody is looking. For Amala, it began in a middle-class Malayali home where she wasn’t trying to prove anything but to exist.
The ‘Good Malayali Child’
As a child, Amala Ajithkumar Parammal embodied the characteristics of the ideal child perfectly. “I was a textbook good kid,” she says. “Top grades, a good singer, polite to everyone. I came first in academics almost every year. That was my confidence. I knew I was good at something.”
But behind those glowing report cards and the applause for her Carnatic vocals, something lingered within Amala that she didn’t have a name for at the time.
“There were these little pockets of joy I kept coming back to,” she recalls. “Like the feel of a dupatta fluttering, the shape of long nails, or the way light fell on bangles. I didn’t have language for it then, but I felt like a girl. I couldn’t say that I was trapped in a boy’s body. I just invisible in it.”
The Quiet Depression of being ‘Mis-seen’
Amala was the kind of student teachers loved. She was sharp, ambitious, and articulate. Her academic validation and her love for music defined her childhood. “I trained in classical music for five years. My teacher identified my talent early, and I started participating in interschool and state-level competitions. I went on to win an A grade.”
Her academics and school performances made life smooth, but when puberty hit, everything changed. For Amala Ajithkumar Parammal, the onset of puberty disrupted the harmony she once felt with her identity.“My voice broke, and suddenly I couldn’t sing the way I used to. That’s when I began to feel erased.”
The Years of Dysphoria
Puberty didn’t just change Amala’s voice; it also influenced the way she saw herself and how she felt about who she was becoming. “I started growing facial hair. I hated it. My body felt like it belonged to someone else. Like a costume I had to wear.”
For a long time, she didn’t know what dysphoria was. “I thought maybe I was depressed. I had everything: good marks, supportive parents, but something was off. Therapy helped me unpack it. I realised I wasn’t sad, I was unseen.”
Amala knew she was attracted to boys, but she also knew she wasn’t a gay man. “I couldn’t explain it, but every time someone saw me as a ‘guy,’ I crumbled inside. I’d feel empty after romantic conversations. I wanted love, but not as a boy. I wanted to be seen as me.”
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Her pockets of comfort
Even during her darkest days, Amala found joy in small rituals. “I would wear my mom’s clothes at home. Sometimes just earrings. I didn’t want anyone to notice. It was for me. Those tiny moments gave me peace. At home, I could be myself, and it felt liberating.”
The academic success and the “perfect son” reputation offered social acceptance, but that also became her biggest prison. “No one bullied me because I was the smart, cultured boy. But being ‘the good son’ was suffocating.”
COVID: The Unexpected Lifeline and Turning Point
The lockdown helped Amala grow into the best version of herself. “I didn’t have to go outside. I wasn’t performing masculinity anymore. I was just at home, in my room. So, I started dressing the way I felt. There was no judgment, just my pockets of comfort.”
She didn’t transition socially or post photos. “It was just me and the mirror. And for the first time, I felt gender euphoria. I thought, ‘So this is what my mom and sister feel every day.’ Being comfortable in their own body was magically comforting. I’d never felt that before.”
Coming out, Crashing into the System
Amala describes her relationship with her parents as her greatest blessing. Initially, they were accepting of her attraction to boys. However, discussing her desire to transition felt different for Amala. When she finally came out to her parents as Amala Ajithkumar Parammal, it marked the beginning of a new chapter in her life.
“My dad just said, ‘Shall we start the surgery?’ There was no drama and no tears shed. They just supported me.”
Her mother, a nurse, took a day off. She reached out to nurse friends to understand the medical side. “She came back and said, ‘Your childhood makes sense now. I wish I knew earlier.’ That day I cried so much.”
“They told me, ‘You’ve carried enough burdens. Let us carry you now.’ Not every trans girl gets that support.”
Navigating Healthcare and Financial Challenges
Even with support, the medical system was harsh. One psychiatrist in Kannur insisted she dress as a woman for two years before starting hormones. “Did they expect me to suddenly walk into my college campus in a saree, unmedicated? That’s not healthcare.”
She moved to Bangalore soon and found a supportive therapist who prescribed Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT) after three sessions. “It felt life-saving. My body finally aligned with my soul.”
However, transitioning came with significant financial costs. The expenses for medications, blood tests, therapy sessions, and a gender-affirming wardrobe accumulated rapidly. Hormone medications came to about ₹2,000 to ₹3,000 a month. Regular blood tests every few months cost ₹6,000 to ₹7,000. Therapy sessions were ₹1,000 per visit. Skincare and clothing essentials required another ₹3,000 minimum every month. “My parents covered it all. I’ll always be grateful not just for the money, but for believing in me.”
Becoming Amala and Living Out Loud
After transitioning, Amala began sharing her journey online. Her goal wasn’t to gain fame, but rather to connect with others by telling her story. “If even one trans kid feels hope because of my posts, it’s worth it.” Amala doesn’t argue with trolls. “I used to be a transphobic person once. I hated myself. So, I know where their hate comes from. I just post a better picture. That’s my win.”
The Future?
Amala now dreams of creating a space for queer people, especially from small towns. “I had to unlearn so much shame. I want others to know they’re not alone.”
Her biggest wish is to write and publish the book she is currently working on. “That’s my current dream. Completing my book is what I want most.” Alongside, she hopes to grow her content creation work and return to music. “I want to sing again, not as the ‘boy who sings well,’ but as myself.”
“At the end of the day, I want to wake up, look in the mirror, and say, ‘Yes. That’s me.’ Right now, I can do that. And that’s enough,” stated Amala Ajithkumar Parammal, reflecting on her journey with a calm certainty.
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