Meela means 'to receive.' Mama Bachan gave me that name. "Sanoo puth mussin meela" he said as he held me the first time, honouring me by calling me a son. Eighteen years later he quietly scolded me. "Bethi, a daughter has to get married and lift the weight from their parent's head." The raw, naked truth was finally spoken. I was not a son. I was a daughter. An albatross. "Ki Meela?!" I laughed sarcastically with myself. My poor parents after loosing three fetuses in less than three years - one a male - must have stood tall, chin up and smiled. Yes, they had a son. Their daughter was like a son. For eighteen years they ignored what was not between my tiny, chubby legs. For the first few years of my life I didn't see it myself. I didn't even know "it" existed until three sisters later my brother lay in the stroller while my mother changed his diaper. I was horrified and asked my mom embarrassing questions. So, this was a boy. A mundha. And the swollen brown balls of flesh were what everyone was so excited about. Even my father, who was a good dad - worked hard and played games on Sunday with his girls - was clapping his hands above the carriage as my baby brother cried. "Hah! Tu Mera puth ha?" Then he put up his dukes and scowled, "If you are my son, then put one here - right on the chin!"