One day before class, I and a few of my girlfriends were singing and dancing inside the classroom. “Hariya Chura Mera Haath Bhari” was the song we were all chanting and I was breaking my hips in thumkas in the middle. Our spontaneous burst of joy came to an end when the teacher walked in. He was our computer teacher. When the class began, he called out my name and asked me to the front, facing all my friends and peers. He demanded that I dance for all of them like I had been dancing with my girlfriends before the class. My cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. Later that day, the news had gotten around. Students from other classes started staring at me and talking behind my back in the hallways. I had had enough when one of the teachers joined in the mockery and nicknamed me “Mounjolika”.
After that day, I asked my parents to change my school and I never stepped inside the hallways. I joined a public school near my home which was completely different than my private school. People paid less attention to what others were doing. I was even asked to join a dance group and I made friends easily. (I am still friends with my dance group until now). In this new circle, I felt more and more comfortable in my skin and began dancing my heart out without fear of judgment from anyone. I remember being invited to go to a friend’s house to study. When I reached her home, my eyes caught her collection of beautiful sparkly nail polish. We had spent the day applying eyeliner and lipstick, painting our nails, and dancing away behind locked doors.
I washed my face before heading home. It was around dinner time when my dad noticed that I had nail polish on (which I had completely forgotten about). I was caught off guard and didn’t know how to respond. I kept quiet.
“Have you seen any other men in our home with nail polish?”
“What’s gotten into you? Act like a man. We can’t keep changing schools for you.”
“If I see you wearing nail polish next time, I will kick you out of my home. Understood!” He shouted.
I was sobbing and ran to my room thinking that I would never be able to do the things I wanted to do.
It was much later in my early twenties that I truly felt like I had a community of people who understood and supported me. I was at my friend’s house for a sleepover and suddenly I realized that it was the first time in my life that I was in a room full of other people like me. It wasn’t just me who realized it. I can still remember the smell of the room. The room was filled with lavender haze. We started sharing our childhood stories and our journey of self-discovery. There were waves of laughter and tears in equal parts. I remember all of us hugging and embracing each other by the end of the night. It was at this moment, that I knew I had to pursue my passion for dancing.
Soon after, I started looking for opportunities and got referred to dance in a Satta in Bhairahawa. I was frequently traveling back and forth, performing on stage in various festivals and celebrations. Everyone from the small town came to see queer people dancing and showcasing their talents. The flow of audience from various parts of Bhairahwa meant that we were also paid for our performances.
I began experiencing the joy of being able to present myself in the way I wanted with hair and makeup, all dressed up dancing my heart out. I also started saving money.
Unfortunately, this came to a halt when COVID-19 hit. I was stuck in my room once again. I connected with others online and found out about Drag for the first time. I watched every episode of RuPual’s Drag Seasons and wondered if I could ever perform as a Drag artist. When the pandemic died down, there was a buzz around the city. Nepal was hosting its first Drag Show competition.
I hurriedly contacted the organizers and asked them to put my name on the list. They asked me what my drag name was. At the time, I had been obsessed with performing in the K-pop song “Anti Fragile”. The lyrics made me feel like I was a lioness performing. That’s how I came around to naming myself Anti-Fragile. During my performance, I came up with the line - "Call me Aunty or Anti, I ain't fragile like you, honey".
A week before the show, I was frantically looking for dresses. Until now, I had been dancing on cultural nights and I knew those costumes were not grand enough. A friend of mine, who was also set to compete alongside me in the Drag Show gifted me a blue dress. It was everything that I had ever imagined. It made me like a fairy prancing around. As a child, I always wanted to look like Sonapari, a popular fairy in one of the kid’s shows while I was growing up.
I made it to the finale. My friend who gave me the dress was competing with me for the title. But we felt no competition between us. We danced our hearts out. I felt my childhood dream coming true. She won and I placed as the first runner up. It was one of the best nights of my life.
Ever since I have never looked back. I began performing more and more as the Anti-Fragile. More and more people invited me to their show. The invitation to perform never stopped. I performed at the Annual Pride Parade. National Law College invited me to perform for their function. We celebrated International Drag Day and I performed there too.
Eventually, I went out to win the title of the first Drag Show for Visibility organized by the Blue Diamond Society and sponsored by the US Embassy. Hearing everyone cheer my name from the audience in excitement and anticipation instead of mockery changed my life for good.
My journey from Manoj to Asshika to Anti-Fragile has taught me so much about queer culture and myself. I hope to be performing for a very very long time.
