Respect is all I Ask | Ajay Immanuel

They call me ‘hijra’, the Indian term for a transgender. I call myself, Mythili. I have no home. I have no family. I have nothing besides my own body, even which does no justice to the mental projection I have of me. I see myself as a woman. My body on the other hand has a woman’s breasts but the genitals of a man’s.

I had heard that this is a genetic disorder but I don’t know what to do about it nor do I have the money to go see a doctor. I don’t have big dreams that I want to achieve in life. All that I ask for is respect.

I was born in a tiny village, about three hundred kilometers away from Mumbai. I was cast out of school and out of my home, when I was around sixteen. I was called Mahesh then. I was the tiniest in our class and the favorite pick of the bullies since I was the easiest to beat up because of my small shape and my silent nature.

It got worse when I hit puberty. Till then I hadn’t given much importance to the differences between boys and girls. I simply thought God intended only to make girls and then boys happened when he got drunk. I had always liked girls more, probably because they were a lot nicer to me than the boys in my village. At puberty, I increasingly started identifying myself with girls which was only intensified by the boys’ bullying. Then things got even worse.

The boys got one more reason to mock me, when my breasts started growing. The brash ones beat me daily calling me a ‘weirdo’ while the pervert ones often carried me against my will into the boy’s restroom, tore my shirt open and squeezed my breasts, till they were satisfied.

My family, on the other hand, barely functioned at all. My father was too busy engaging in debauchery with other women to ever notice my mother and myself. My mother soon ran away with the village postman. It was only natural and I sympathized with her decision but I wish she could have thought of me before leaving our village. Anyways, I was left all alone, neither cared for nor loved.

Eventually, the principal along with the other teachers asked me stop attending school as well. My condition became obvious by then even to the dumbest of the dumb. To be honest, I was quite relieved on knowing that I wouldn’t be abused or molested anymore but I really wanted to read. I loved history among other subjects like, political science.

I stayed at my home for a few more weeks after that, during which I transformed from Mahesh into Mythili. My father often came in the dead of night, drunk and never bothered to look at me. I stole money from his pocket to buy groceries and make food for myself. My father never ate at home and he was always gone before I woke up in the morning. My father’s absence only helped my transition go even faster. I took some of my mother’s old saris and her blouses which I had them altered to fit me.

One hot day, I decided to put on a woman’s clothes for the first time. It was 9^th of September. I went to my parent’s room where there was a large mirror. I undressed and I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

I saw my round hairless face, my womanly pride and the genitals that disgraced me that only reminded me of the boys who took so much pleasure in harassing me. I was a woman and I knew it yet my body insulted me. Hence I determined that where my body refused to cooperate, I shall cover it with a woman’s clothing. I put on my mother’s sari, I struggled at first but by afternoon, I had got it right.

I took out the ‘kajal’ from the cupboard my mother used to use and I applied the black paste around the corners of my eyes. I stepped back and I looked again at my reflection in the mirror. I smiled. I was perfect, I was a woman. I bit my lips to let the blood rush in and give them a deep hue of pink. Now, no one except the mirror and I knew my true nature.

The sun vanished and the stars flew in as the night took over the village. It was close to two in the morning when I heard the doors rattling. My heart racing, I went to the door and I opened it. It was my father. He stumbled and I reached out to hold him, he caught me by my shoulders and I realized my mistake.

“Another woman!” he said, his breath stinking of liquor, “The gods must really love me!”

I resisted, trying to push him away. He didn’t budge. He brought his mouth close to my neck and I squirmed. I struggled between telling him the truth or suffering through this ordeal.

What father would want to know this unsettling truth about his son?

Then reconsidering the present situation, I decided to tell him.

‘Papa, it’s me Mohan!” I cried, as he pushed me towards his room.

He was too drunk to comprehend what I am trying to say.

I wanted to shout but I couldn’t, knowing very well the sequence of events that would happen when the villagers rush inside the house.

I kept silent and I accepted the punishment. My father stripped me open. I shut my eyes unable to take it anymore. He ravaged me but fortunately, he passed out soon.

When I heard him snoring loud enough, I decided that I must leave this place. I packed up my mother’s old clothes and I took out money from my father’s shirt and I left.

I came to Mumbai. I was at the Chatrapatti Shivaji Terminus, the biggest and grandest railway station I had ever seen. I was excited but I was more afraid to be alone in this big city. It was quite a burden but I took heart in the fact that I had made it this far. Out on the streets, it took no more than a few seconds to sink my optimism. Men looked oddly at me and children ran away when they saw me. Women looked with disgust when they crossed me. I felt heartbroken that people looked at me as an object of shame.

However, I knew I needed to survive and to do so, I needed a job to support myself. Without wasting any more time, I started going around shops asking for odd jobs. I was turned away at most of them, except at a small restaurant, where there was a kind-looking young man who looked at me quite suspiciously for some time and then told me to come at seven in the evening. I thanked him heartily and I came back to the Terminus, where I spent the rest of the day before returning to the place in the evening.

When I reached there, the young man smiled which reassured me of the job and he led me through the back of the restaurant to a dark street with barely functioning street lights.

‘Where are you taking me?’ I asked, getting a little nervous.

“The place where you belong,” he said.

I got a jolt when I saw others like me emerge from the shadows in the street, grinning at me revealing their betel nut stained teeth.

“Selina, I have got you a fresh young one,” the young man said.

My worst fears coming true, I turned back and start running only to be stopped by two large hijras. They turned me around and I saw Selina, an ugly obese middle-aged hijra, chewing betel nut.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

I didn’t answer. Then one of the hijras holding me slapped me tight across my cheek.

I still didn’t answer.

“Tell me darling,” Selina coaxed, drawing closer, “You’re extremely beautiful, you wouldn’t want us to make you ugly, now would you? Now tell us your name.”

“Mythili,” I answered.

“Ah! What a pretty name!” Selina laughed and the rest of the hijras also laughed with her.

“Welcome home, child,” Selina says.

“I don’t want to be here, I want to go, please let me go!” I plead.

Selina didn’t even bother to look back. She walked back with the young man talking about his payment. I started crying out of helplessness.

They shoved me inside a tiny room with a bed and a single yellow bulb. I crawled to a corner and I started sobbing as I contemplated the vicious truth.

I had got myself into a hijra brothel where men like my father and perverts would molest me day in and day out without shame. What happened to my dream of being a free woman? When can I live with respect among the people in their society and not be reduced to merely tools of pleasure for the perverts?

Suddenly door opened and I saw Selina come in, smiling monstrously at me. She was followed by the young man who had sold me out.

“Well, Boda,” Selina told the young man, “she must be prepared for the work here and I see that you desire her. You teach her and you’ll get her free every time you visit here.”

Boda laughed, clapping his hands together.

“Your generosity kills me,” he said, as he opened his shirt.

I crept back into the corner as tightly as I could, hoping the walls would transform into open doors.

Over the next couple of hours, Boda tore apart my soul as he made me commit animalistic acts again and again.

I endured the hardship for the next couple of months. My dreams of being a woman crushed, I no longer looked at myself in the mirror any more. I was trapped like a fish caught in the fisherman’s net and I even came to a point where I thought not even death could truly liberate me.

A few months later, I heard that there was an economic crisis. I had no idea what it meant but I heard the other Hijra say it meant fewer customers and so they sent and other hijra whom Selina thought were pretty to roam around the Queen Victoria Terminus at night to draw in customers, while being monitored by Boda who always stood at a distance watching us.

This was the time when I started thinking about escaping from Selina’s clutches. I began planning it thoroughly for the next couple of days as men visited me at the brothel; I questioned them about trains as they were moaning in pleasure. A few extra tricks here and there and I got to know what I needed.

There were eleven buses that crossed the station during the time I tried to woo men from 10 till 1 at night and Boda’s attention was the highest on me when the buses went by. I had learnt from my customers that there was a train that left for Bangalore at 10 P.M every Friday and I knew from my night-outs that there was a local bus that arrived just three minutes before that.

Then on Friday the 26^th of April, I carried out my plan. The 9:57 P.M bus arrived in front of me and I rushed inside the station, as the bus blocked me from Boda’s view. I kept hoping that Boda ran behind that bus while I got inside the train safely. I jumped inside the Bangalore bound train and travelled inside the toilet. Thankfully none of the Hijra or Boda found out and came after me.

I reached Bangalore the next night. I had about two thousand rupees, all stolen little by little from the men who visited me. Though I enjoyed relief I was worried as to what I was going to do next. I wandered the city for the next few days. No one came near me nor even cared to speak to me. I tried asking a few women whether they knew there were any centers for people like me and all that I got in return was them swearing at me. The men were worse. They threw coins at my face as they walked past me, while I was speaking to them. The only ones who ever listened to me were the perverts, whose primary concern was to know what I looked like beneath the sari. They stalked me, tried to rape me at night, tore my sari and threw stones at me when I resisted them. The police didn’t help me either. I was all alone in the world and my dreams of being respected as a woman were all washed away. I was told there were no jobs for people like me. The money I had was spent within a week and I faced the ominous truth that all I had left was my body to sell. My pink sari was all dirty, my long hair unkempt and my face painted with dismay. Thoughts started hitting me no matter how much I tried to distract myself like the rays of the sun hitting the earth.

Should I go back to the darkness that plunged me in Mumbai? Should I sell my body and earn from its fruits? Or should I strive for my dream?

My stomach burned all day. I had not eaten for three days and as I lied in the dust on the pavement, I realized that sometimes to see your dreams come true you need to persist through the seemingly worst things in life.

With that thought, I got up to find ways to feed myself, to survive to see the day when I will be respected.

I walked to the traffic signal at the middle of the road when the lights hit red. Putting aside my shame, I extended my arms towards an old bald man on a scooter and a few coins dropped onto my palms. They jingled as they clashed together and a smile spread on my smile. They were the sweetest sound I had heard in years.

 

---

 

Ajay Immanuel is a Biomedical Science post-graduate and has written a SF novel, “Troy Zander and the Sign of the Unseen” published on Amazon Kindle