- Title: FTM Cop Story:
- Subtitle: Good Cop – Sam O’Yeah
- Author: Yulia Yu. Sakurazawa
Introduction: Sam O’Yeah is a smart, astute, dedicated young constable with the Delhi Police force. He is blessed with a great support system in the form of his very beautiful wife, Bela. His life-style seems ordinary. But there’s a teensy catch. Sam isn’t a biological ‘him’. He’s a man trapped in a woman’s body.
Sam’s life is turned upside down when he is called upon to investigate the murder of 14 year old Neeta Singh. Does the key to solving the chilling case lie in Sam’s own traumatic past?
Sam O’Yeah/Sameera Mathur: She is the 23 year old feisty protagonist of the story. Sam O’Yeah is a tall, good-looking girl who desires to be and eventually even lives as a man in India. She works with the Delhi police and is ‘married’ to a young woman called Bela. Sam suffers from mixed feelings when she is asked to investigate the murder of young Neeta Singh. She is in great need of catharsis and finds it by telling her wife her life history. The key to solving the case lies in Sam’s own traumatic past.
Bela: is Sam O’Yeah’s bold and beautiful partner. Bela is also in her early 20s, is slender and sylph-like. Her hair is dark and wavy. She throws societal rules to the winds when she agrees to marry a transgender man. Bela is extremely supportive of Sam. She runs her house and provides solid emotional support. Sam finds a patient listener and great sounding board in Bela—it’s while narrating her past traumatic history to Bela that Sam finds a clue to the present murder case that she’s investigating.
Natalie: is one of the trustees of an NGO for destitute women in New Delhi. She is also a very close friend of Sam’s. Natalie is a cheerful, dark haired woman in her 30s. She constantly encourages Sam to express her urges and dress and live as a man. Natalie gets Sam a rubber penis for soft and hard packing from America. When a criminal on the loose attacks Sam, Natalie pleads with her to relocate to the US.
Neeta Singh: is the brave 14 year old murder victim in the story. Neeta is raped on a regular basis by her demonic father, Ratan Singh. At 14, she boldly puts up a fight and threatens to tell the neighbors, the police and the women’s grievances cell about his vile deeds. Fearing Neeta will expose his crimes in public, Ratan Singh kills her.
Ratan Singh: is the 40 year old father of the deceased Neeta Singh. Ratan Singh’s eyes, set close together, have the habit of darting to and fro stealthily. Otherwise, he’s a non-descript man who works as a garage mechanic.
Keshu: is Sam’s second elder brother. He’s a scrawny, unattractive youth with thick features. Keshu is a minor delinquent: he drinks, smokes, steals and gets into fights. He resents the fact that his sister behaves like a boy. He is insanely jealous that Champa, a girl he fancies, is in love with Sam. Keshu’s fury knows no bounds when Sam defeats him in a cricket match played in front of a huge crowd. The perverted Keshu rapes Sam as ‘punishment’ for her ‘misdeeds’.
Ranjan Mathur: is Sam’s uncultured, uninspiring dad who works in a tyre factory. He has a patriarchal mind-set and doesn’t believe in male-female equality. He is in the habit of coming home drunk every ten days and mercilessly hitting his wife with a belt.
Shambhavi: is Ranjan Mathur’s timid, oppressed wife. She too doesn’t believe in male-female equality and gives her sons preferential treatment over her daughter. She expects Sam to dress and behave in a feminine manner, something the latter resents.
Chandan: is Sam’s beautiful, gentle, vague, aloof, affectionate eldest brother. Of all members of Sam’s family, Chandan is the most harmless. However, he is ineffectual in preventing harassment and discrimination against Sam at home.
Champa: is Sam’s childhood friend who goes on to become her first lover. Champa is a conventional girl who wants to be married to a man when she grows up; yet she can’t help falling in love with Sam.
Manoj: is the man whom Sam is married off to. Manoj is an educated guy; he works as a software engineer in a leading IT company. He is an avaricious person and expects a lot of dowry from the bride’s family.
Gopi and Mukesh: are constables who work under Sam and are also involved in the investigation of Neeta Singh’s murder.
Mr. and Mrs. Saxena: are the kind, generous uncle and aunt of Sam. They treat Sam with affection, but expect her to be the ‘typical girl’ who wears feminine clothes, sports long hair and so on.
[Sample text – less than 10% of the story is shown due to restrictions of KDP]
Murder most Foul
When I woke, the sun was already streaming in through the barricade of curtain. ‘Oh no, it’s already 8:00 am’ I thought agitatedly ‘I will be late for duty’. Today, I remembered, I was to be deployed at the Patel Nagar area of New Delhi for patrolling. Thankfully, it wasn’t very far away from where I lived. I thought I would be able to make it in the nick of time.
I finished my morning ablutions and had a quick bath. Then I proceeded to bind my chest area super tight so that all traces of breasts would be snuffed out. A vest that I donned after binding concealed my twin embarrassments quite effectively. The sports bra that I had purchased from a local store had been of no use for the purpose. My American friend, Natalie, claimed that they sold something called ‘the binding bra’ in New York and had promised to get me one the next time she visited. I am really and truly fortunate to have a friend like Natalie.
Next, I turned my attentions towards the south of my body. Thanks to Natalie, I now didn’t have to stuff the front of my briefs with singularly uncomfortable thinks like huge wads of cotton or rolled strips of the checked cotton dhoti* (1). Natalie had got me a rubber object that was a replica of the male organs i.e. the penis, testicles and scortum and had advised me to pack my underwear with it henceforth. The penis replica had really changed my life; ever since I had started using it I noticed a change in my personality, and the change was indubitably for the better. I was suffused with a new confidence, which made me hold my back erect and walk with a stride that I had previously not sported. Never had I felt prouder to be me: 23 year old Sam O’ Yeah, Indian girl who desired to be and lived as a man and, who worked as the head constable with the Delhi police. Yes, I spent my days detecting crime, making bandobasts(2), carrying out court duties, issuing summons and warrants and so on. I was also proud to be the adoring husband of Bela, the most beautiful girl in the world (in my humble opinion, at least!), whom I had been lucky enough to woo and marry.
At this point you may have a number of questions. ‘Do Indian girls have names like Sam O’ Yeah?’ .No, they don’t. My forename is a short form of my birth name, Sameera. ‘O’ Yeah’ is a surname I had given myself as a sort of challenge to society, circumstances and the apprehensive part of me.
‘So, you’re a man?’ (Public eyes opening wide)
‘You’re married to a woman?’ (Incredulousness mingled with the proverbial green eyed monster)
‘Are you employed as the head constable with the Delhi police?’ (‘Oh God, what has the Delhi police come to–hiring abnormal girls who dress up like men and fuck women?’)
‘We’ll beat you black and blue for flouting nature’s rules’.
O’ Yeah? (Try me. I am a black belt at taekwondo)
‘We’ll rape you to teach you a lesson’
‘O’ Yeah?’ (Violate my pussy as many times as you want. Crush and ravish my body. But you will never be able to annihilate my spirit.)
Above the public cacophony, my own fear spoke out.
‘They’ll rape your wife to teach you a lesson’
‘O’ Yeah?’ ( I’ll burn them alive before such a profane thought sprouts in their depraved minds).
Bela knocked and came in with my morning cup of strong dark robust masala chai; a concoction that ousted the final remnants of sleep off my mind. ‘Magical!’ I exclaimed as I took the first sip ‘And what’s the secret ingredient?’. ‘Love’ my pretty wife winked. Every pore of her, right from the long dark wavy hair framing her lovely angelic face to the lacy white gown that hugged her sylph-like slender figure, oozed contentment today. She stretched voluptuously. I felt virile and manly, knowing that my last night’s performance in bed was the reason for her morning’s after glow. It was ‘hard packing’ (using a hard version of the rubber penis) that had enabled an especially deep and satisfying penetration. I sent a silent telepathic message to Natalie. She was a star.
After a quick breakfast, I had to be off to report at the Lajpat Nagar branch. My beat would start at 8.30 am and end at 8.30 pm. Sometimes when there was too much on the police’s plate, my shift didn’t end at all. I could return home only in the wee hours of the morning. And all through the night, I’d worry about my lovely, nubile wife left all alone at home. What if some bastard, who resented the fact that I dressed and lived like a man, decided to assault Bela? Sometimes, while even on morning shift, I’d have nightmarish visions of Bela walking down the marketplace, and my rivals eyeing her like a piece of meat. The images worried me so much that I’d often phone a colleague deployed in the area and ask him to check up on my wife.
I whizzed off on my bullet motorbike and was at the Lajpat Nagar Police Branch by 8. 27 am. ‘It’s Patel Nagar patrolling, right, Sir?’ I asked the Assistant Police Sub Inspector. ‘No Sam, an issue has arisen in Rajendra Nagar’ my superior’s voice was grim. ‘An FIR has been registered 5 minutes back…I want you to go to the crime scene with Gopi and Mukesh’.
‘It’s murder and suspected sexual assault’ Gopi briefed me up during our short ride ‘the victim is Neeta Singh, aged 14 years. The girl had lost her mother three years ago and lived with her father, Ratan Singh. She was an only child’.
The scene of the crime was an old two floor ramshackle building. The sight of battered vehicles, dissembled auto-parts and greasy uniformed mechanics working told us that the ground floor had been converted into some sort of garage. The landlord hadn’t been able to find tenants to occupy the housing area on the first floor, owing to which it was locked. We had to traipse up another dusty flight of steps (with rusted railings, if you have to know) to reach the little apartment on the second floor: the actual turf where the crime had been committed.
The sight that met my eyes was Golgotha. Blood was splattered everywhere: on the walls, the sparse furniture and lay in viscous pools on the floor. At the centre of the room, lay the brutally mutilated corpse of young Neeta Singh. Her throat had been slashed and blood had evidently come out in a heavy gush, leading to pools and stains all around. Neeta Singh’s white uniform had been soaked red in her own fluid. The patches of skin that were visible were scarred by something; cigarette marks they seemed like, but I couldn’t say for sure until the preliminary medical reports had come in.
I stepped in and was met by the sight of a man of about 40 crying copiously. I noticed that he was garbed in the same uniform that the garage mechanics had been wearing. His eyes, set rather close together, had the habit of stealthily darting to and fro the way my brother Keshu’s had. Otherwise, he was a rather non-descript looking man. ‘That’s Ratan Singh, the father of the victim’ Gopi told me ‘Apparently, he came home last night to find her…like this’. ‘Must have come as a great shock’ I mechanically mouthed, the inside of my head spewing up its own doubts. ‘Why did he wait for about 10 hours to report the crime?’ I was thinking ‘Could any work have been more urgent lodging the FIR of his own daughter’s murder?’
I cursorily inspected the crime scene. There was no sign of a forced entry, making it clear that the assailant had been known to the victim. There were two small windows in the drawing room and one in either of the bed rooms. All of them were grilled, ruling out the possibility of a break-in. Besides, nothing in the house had been stolen, so the motive of burglary was out.
When I came back to the front hall, Ratan Singh was nowhere to be seen. As Gopi, Mukesh and I were striding down the stairs; I noticed him leaning against the wall, making idle talk with the other mechanics. The man had a cigarette in hand and was letting out one swirl of smoke after another. I remembered the suspected cigarette marks on the victim’s body.
There was nothing else that I could further do in Rajendra Nagar. I went patrolling in the Patel Nagar. By the time I reported after the beat, the medical reports had come in. The mutilation in the genital area proved that Neeta Singh had been brutally raped. Strangely, however, no traces of DNA had been left behind making it difficult to pin down the rapist and the murderer. (And yes, the marks on her body had been cigarette burns).
Not for the first time did I experience a dichotomous cauldron of feelings brimming within me. I, a biological girl, desired to be a man. I wanted to have a broad chest, sprout facial hair, develop a deep voice and possess a cock. My nipples stiffened and the hypothetical cock got erect when I was attracted to a girl. I was hyper-aroused when I made love to my wife. Yet, as a wannabe man, I didn’t connect with the wild beasts who committed crimes. These beasts came into the world courtesy the female uterus, yet grew up to become the sons of the devil: smoking, drinking, chewing betel leaves and boorishly spitting them on every available inch of mother earth; ill-treating women: beating, abasing and raping the very kind of bodies that were responsible for bringing them into existence. And the situation was getting worse with each passing day. Being in the police force has brought me in touch with a number of cases in which these monsters had proven their masculinity by putting their penises inside little girls and female infants. It’s surprising they had’t found a way to rape girl fetuses yet.
I returned home. The heaviness of my mood must have reflected in my tread. ‘Hard day?’ Bela raised one quizzical brow.
‘Hard day’ I admitted.
We ate dinner in silence. As I lay with my back towards her, Bela rubbed my shoulders. ‘Bela’, I asked reflectively ‘How much do you know about me?’
‘I know that I love you’ said Bela kissing my shoulder.
‘Thank you’ I said
‘Is there anymore you’d like to tell?’ her voice was silk in the darkness.
I began to tell. Right from the very beginning.
I was born in Meerat, a B-town in the state of Uttar Pradesh in India. Since it was an old city, there were a few heritage style buildings around. Otherwise, it was like any other little town in north India; with narrow dusty alleys, garishly painted buildings and terrible pot-holed roads. Mammoth-sized political placards stood on either side of the roads and hideous granite walls built around houses were decked with posters of local X-rated movies. When I was growing up, the much advertised much hyped malls, metros, multiplexes and ATMs hadn’t made their respective appearances in the city. We shopped in local markets, travelled by bus or rickshaw, caught movies at theatres and deposited and withdrew money from banks.
Meerut was, incidentally, not a female-friendly town. It had the lowest sex ratio in India, i.e. the number of females per males was considerable lower. This was due to the rampant infanticide and feticide of female fetuses in this part of the country. The crime rate was also very high, with people bumping each other off due to personal animosity or political rivalry. The mafia, sometimes, decided to take things in its hands and did away with people whenever it thought fit.
The summers of Meerut were sweltering hot; the winters quite cold and the downpour, between June and September was torrential. I was born into a lower middle class family; my father, Ranjan Mathur, had (in my opinion) a singularly uninspiring job in a tyre factory. Looking back, I don’t think he did particularly badly; he drew a reasonable salary with some arrangements for social security such as the EPF (Employees Provident Fund) and Dearness Allowance (DA). It was adequate to put food in our bellies, clothes on our bodies and a reasonably solid roof over our heads. However, I always plagued by feelings of some sort of a dearth, which I think was more due to a lack of sophistication and culture in my family rather than an actual paucity of money. My mother, Shambhavi, a house wife; cooked his meals, looked after his house, bore and brought up his children. My father was hailed by society as a ‘good mild-mannered husband’. He lived up to this sobriquet most of the time. Except once in ten days, he’d came home drunk, and beat our mother to pulp. All we could do, during these times, was gape perplexedly. ‘What are you doing standing and staring?’ he’d turn viciously on us ‘Go to your rooms and do your homework’. And I’d concentrate on homework, trying to blot out the jarring agonizing sound of his belt making contact with her skin. Mother would howl and yowl like a wild creature in pain. Then the next day, everything would go on as normal. She’d get up, cook, get us all bathed and ready for school and fastidiously pack my father’s lunch-box. Except, she’d do all this with a black eye and red angry welts on her body. ‘How did that happen?’ a concerned neighbor or acquaintance would inevitably happen to ask. And my mother would invariably give excuses like ‘I fell down a flight of stairs’, ‘I slipped in the bathroom’, ‘I fell off the compound wall while trying to pluck a bunch of mangoes from the trees’ et al.
I, the youngest in the family, was christened Sameera Mathur at birth. Two elder brothers preceeded me. Chandan, the eldest, was four years my senior. He was a nice quiet aloof boy who performed well in school. My second brother, Keshu, was my older than me by just a year. He was scrawny ruffian of a boy who was always getting into scraps and fights. Keshu was always a delinquent, it seems, for by the age of 5 he was constantly being chased by shop-keepers for stealing buns or making away with packets of cashews. No amount of chastising on my parents’ part had any effect on this spawn of the devil.