We became the first trans couple in Madhya Pradesh to be married under Buddhist rites.

This wasn’t just a wedding—it was a statement. A reminder that the rights given to us by the Constitution must be used and asserted.

I met Avani at the Tapish Foundation, where she was a volunteer. Over time, she developed a crush on me, but I didn’t realize it then. When she finally expressed her feelings, I said no—maybe because memories of a past relationship still haunted me, a relationship that ended due to societal pressure.

But Avani was different. She didn’t let go of my hand—instead, she held it tighter. Her love came without conditions, without fear of what society might say. Slowly, I realized that the connection I had been searching for was right in front of me.

We both knew we didn’t just want to be in a relationship—we wanted to be life partners. Avani wasn’t comfortable with a live-in arrangement, and I too wanted to begin this chapter of my life with commitment and purpose.

But when we planned a Hindu wedding, the biggest shock came when the priest refused to solemnize our marriage. He said, “This marriage is not normal.”

That day, we realized that equality doesn’t come just from being written into the Constitution—you have to fight for it. So, we chose a new path: a Buddhist wedding.

Buddhism is a faith rooted in equality.

We became the first trans couple in Madhya Pradesh to be married under Buddhist rites. This wasn’t just a wedding—it was a statement. A reminder that the rights given to us by the Constitution must be used and asserted.

However, for the sake of family, we also had to go through a Hindu wedding—one where we had to hide our true selves. That didn’t sit right with either of us.

If a ritual forces someone to deny their identity, what good is that tradition?

Our story isn’t just about a wedding—it’s about a new idea. That love is greater than social norms. That no tradition is worth upholding if it compromises human dignity and self-respect.

Today, we’re starting a new life together—with a dream. Not just to live for ourselves, but to become a beacon for others.

I grew up in Suwasra Mandi, a small village in Madhya Pradesh, where gender roles were rigid and unforgiving. Born in a girl’s body, I always knew I was a boy—but saying it out loud felt impossible. I battled confusion, fear, and silence. There was a time I wanted to end it all. But my mother’s words echoed in my mind: “My child will do something great.” That one sentence pulled me back from the edge.

In a world that barely understands trans people—and even less so, trans men—I felt invisible. Even within the trans community, we are the unheard, unseen minority. Every step I took to live as my true self—changing documents, claiming space, demanding dignity—was met with suspicion or silence.

But one day, something shifted. My mother watched an episode of Satyamev Jayate and said, “If you feel like a boy, then you are. Don’t worry—I’m with you.”

It was the first time someone truly saw me.

The rest of the family only came around once I stood on my own feet and made a name for myself. Today, my maternal relatives fully support me, but my father and his side of the family remain stuck in regressive thinking.

I remember the time I went to Bhopal to change my name and gender on my mark sheet. I missed my train and had nowhere to stay. I was scared to go to a hotel because all my documents still had my old name. I kept thinking, “What if the hotel staff starts asking questions? What if they call the police?”

Coming from a small village, the big city felt completely unfamiliar. I didn’t know where to go. That cold night, I had to sleep at the railway station. And all I could think about was—“I wish there was a place where I could stay without fear.”

And then another thought struck me—there are shelters for everyone: old age homes for the elderly, childcare homes for children, protection homes for women, even places for animals… but no home for trans people.

That’s when I made a vow: one day, I would build a home for people like me. People laughed. They said, “Yeh kya nautanki hai?”

I had no money, no training. Just courage—and a dream.

Today, that dream stands tall as MERA KUNBA—Madhya Pradesh’s first trans shelter home.

A place where trans and queer people can sleep peacefully, laugh freely, and dream of building a world of their own.

This victory isn’t just mine—it belongs to our entire kunba.