Photo Project: Gender Marverique By Santos Kumar Gangala

At 21, I came out to the world as a gender-fluid person through a local newspaper feature that made headlines. On the surface, it seemed straightforward. But as I continued to understand and name my gender, I realized that fluidity didn’t point to a single, fixed identity for me. Around the same time, fashion brands began using the term “gender-fluid” to market clothing. Each time I saw my identity reduced to a label for garments, it felt as though my gender was being treated like costume—like I was merely playing dress-up. People started searching for visual cues to validate my fluidity, and my unconventional dressing became their template for “proof.” That expectation—to perform gender fluidity through appearance—deeply triggered my dysphoria.

Gender has shaped my life for as long as I can remember. At ten, I was already resisting the expectations placed on my assigned gender, often wearing what was considered “opposite-gender” clothing. Growing up, my sense of self felt in constant motion—sometimes I imagined myself as a girl, sometimes as a boy. Gender felt like a switch, allowing me to move between different versions of myself. For years, I couldn’t identify what triggered my dysphoria. Then I traced it back to small moments: at nine, the idea of being shirtless terrified me. I felt intense discomfort showing my torso, even in front of my parents. As I explored my sexuality and gender, I realized that my dysphoria wasn’t only physical—it was also vocal. My relationship to my body sometimes felt connected, sometimes distant, shaped by both gender and voice dysphoria.

Eventually, I began using the term trans non-binary—an umbrella for identities that exist beyond the binary. Yet even within that, I struggled to locate myself. My dysphoria is rooted more in expression than anatomy; I’ve never hated my body or its parts. Instead, I feel that I exist as fully woman, as something beyond, and sometimes within xenogendered experiences. I came to understand that I didn’t yet have the language that truly reflected me.

People still question my trans identity when I present as visibly male outside of drag, a presentation that aligns with my experience as a demiboy. Drag, however, allows me to dissolve and transcend gender boundaries altogether. While working on a pride flag project, I discovered the term Maverique, and it resonated immediately.

Maverique describes a gender that exists entirely outside the binary—on its own plane. It is defined by autonomy, inner conviction, and a sense of self that is independent rather than neutral or absent. Reading about it, I felt an intersection of my experiences reflected back at me. It held my non-binary, xenogender, and gender-flux realities within a single understanding. For many people on the non-binary spectrum, identity is less about outward expression and more about internal landscapes. When we don’t align with widely recognized labels, our experiences can become invisible—especially when shaped by intersections of gender, sexuality, class, and caste that determine which narratives reach mainstream visibility.

Claiming the Maverique label gave me a sense of safety and self-recognition. Still, I often use “non-binary” in everyday contexts for accessibility, because constantly explaining nuanced labels can be exhausting. Choosing when and where to use specific language has become part of my self-care.

Reclaiming identity is a ritual for me. Whenever I discover something new about myself, I translate it into art. After sharing this realization with my friend Aniket, we created a photoshoot to celebrate my maveriqueness. I used the colors of the Maverique flag as my visual language—yellow for independence from other genders, white for autonomy from the binary, and orange for inner conviction.

I wore an orange ghagra paired with a yellow blazer. The ghagra—once worn by men before becoming feminized—felt like a garment without allegiance, while the blazer symbolized universality across genders. A pagadi concealed my hair, disrupting assumptions that link visible traits to gender. Styled with complementary jewelry, the look became a living expression of my identity. Standing before the camera, I felt my maverique self speak freely; the shoot became both celebration and self-acceptance.

As we mark Non-Binary Awareness Week each July, it’s an opportunity to learn about the vast spectrum of identities that exist within and beyond the non-binary umbrella. Creating new labels isn’t about excess—it’s about precision, about having language that allows us to see ourselves clearly. When a queer person coins what might seem like the thousandth label, it is an act of survival and liberation. Every label carries meaning, and every identity deserves recognition.