Manya (She is a Man!)

Written by Manya Singh

There I was, drafting yet another proposal for fundraising, carefully choosing whom to pitch to, those whose visions even remotely aligned with Conservation Indica—the non-profit that my dear friend Aditi, a chosen family member, feminist, author, and extraordinary human being, and I co-founded. We’ve set out to radically shift how conservation research is conducted in this country. And by that, I mean conservation research that truly engages with people and their landscapes. We like to say we’re a women-led, feminist, impact- driven organization, committed to conserving nature by holding power accountable and privileging people’s knowledge.

But amid the stress of waiting for project funds that had been delayed for months, a colleague casually remarked, “Maybe the accountant isn’t taking you seriously because you’re a woman. Do you mind if I try?” My reaction was swift and fierce: “How dare he?” I immediately called the accountant myself. But as the words left my mouth, I realized how poor my choices were. I was bossy, perhaps even rude, and assertive in a way that felt forced, and unnatural. If I had been my own boss, I’d have punched myself.

That night, I spiraled—plunging into a dark pit of self-loathing and regret, imagining I’d shattered the accountant’s headspace. I even toyed with the idea of going to his house in the middle of the night to apologize. The next morning, toothbrush in hand, I stared at my reflection and blurted out: “Manya, you’ve turned into a man!”

Don’t worry, this isn’t some jargon-laden, heavily philosophized dissection of She’s the Man—that Bynes-Tatum teen rom-com I binged in college. Nor is it an attempt to impress you with a grand epiphany about gender identity. It’s not even a gender-bending piece where femininity is glorified to the point of becoming the ultimate “other,” an object of fascination. No, this is about something far more subtle, surreal, and perhaps relatable: how I, someone like me, became a “concept of man”—and how this realization is now steering me towards something I wish I had discovered earlier in my professional life.

During a gender training session led by Kishori Das, a remarkable woman in her late fifties who had traveled to Kutch for a day’s workshop with our grassroots action group, we were asked to explore the depths of our personal histories. Kishori’s presence was both commanding and gentle as she guided us to lie on our backs, close our eyes, and time travel. “Go back to the moments when you were first made to feel like a boy, a girl, a man, a woman—or perhaps something in between,” she said.

“Pick the pieces carefully,” she continued, “those that tainted your memory and hurt your heart.” So we did. We sifted through the painful remnants of our past, recalling the moments that had marked our identities. Then, with a firm yet kind tone, Kishori instructed us to “spill it.” But not to our close allies or work-best-friends. No, she paired us as she saw fit and exclaimed, “Collect your thoughts, weave meaning from them, and share with the person next to you. Don’t just share—listen. And consider whether those memories still hold power over you.”

The best thing about these trainings is that they only work if you let them. For me, these sessions often left behind tears, rage, sadness, and sometimes an unsettling void. That’s how I know they worked. This one was no different. The day my feminine self was discouraged was the day I began performing “like a man” or “equally like a man.” It was my feminist response to the repression, oppression, and societal constructs that surrounded me. In a patriarchal setup, this adaptation served me well as I stepped into the
professional world.

Even more advantageous was the switch we, as women who learned to behave like men, could flip—easy on, easy off. It offered the best of both worlds. But it was still humiliating, still a performance, still exhausting, and it was never truly authentic. I’m not saying identities can’t be a mix of these elements—after all, Virginia Woolf once pondered the “androgynous mind” as the source of creativity—but how comfortable I am with one over the other has become of utmost importance to me.

When I shared my experiences—how boys mocked my short hair, calling me a boy; how girls excluded me for being too “boyish”; how I was told to endure a bad relationship because women are supposed to be resilient, to sacrifice this or that for the happiness of loved ones—I realized how deeply these moments had shaped me. My god! I need to meet the man who devised this duality of feminine and masculine and curated this list of traits. The worst part is that people are sticking to it—following the verbs of this list as if they were commandments. The trait list is a scam, and anyone who tells you that you’re more this or less that is also a scam.

But deep down, we know what exhausts us. We know what we truly are, what keeps us awake at night, and what compels us to contemplate breaking into an accountant’s office to apologize. This is who I am—not an unkind person. Kindness isn’t feminine. It isn’t masculine either. Aggression isn’t masculine, nor is it feminine. We are but a mix of feelings.

As a mid-career professional in the conservation sector, understanding the “self” has become crucial to me—more a responsibility than just a personal journey. As I’ve taken on leadership roles, engaging with young minds, new researchers, seasoned leaders, and traditional figures, I’ve realized there’s no clear path through the chaos where care, kindness, intent, and action mean different things to different people. And amidst all this, the project still has deliverables, designs, progress to be made, and monitoring protocols to follow—all while ensuring that the joy of working in nature conservation isn’t lost.

Now that we’re leading an organization, the questions arise: What kind of thought- leadership are we trying to create? What kind of space are we building? How will it be different? The answers must come from within, from our experiences, our epiphanies, and the truths we’ve uncovered along the way.

For more of Manya, check out @kaaagazkphool on Instagram