MALE FEMALE TRANSGENDER
A year after the Supreme Court awarded transgenders the right to be identified as other than male or female, life has changed little for the community
MOST PEOPLE DON’T EVEN KNOW THE MEANING OF THE TERM TRANSGENDER. FOR THEM IT ONLY MEANS HIJRAS
It is difficult to imagine from the delicate flick of Noorie’s wrists, the sway of her waist and the way her feet keep beat with the song that the 28-year-old has never been formally trained in dancing. But for the visible body hair, it is equally difficult to imagine that the dancer, more graceful than many women, was born a man. On ordinary days Noorie, a social sector worker, prefers to wear a t-shirt and jeans to work. That changes at least twice every year, on Holi and Diwali. On those days, dressed in a salwar kameez and jewellery, Noorie goes with her toli to perform the traditional badhai or dance of blessings that hijras in India perform at weddings, births or festivals, to collect money from shopkeepers in her area. “I don’t do this on a daily basis because being somewhat educated I feel I can serve my community better by working at Mitr Trust, an organization that works for the welfare of the community members,” she says. As a child, she had nurtured dreams of becoming a teacher but couldn’t pursue a teachers training course owing to financial constraints. Then, there was the fear of how society would react to a transgender school teacher. Would she even get a job?
In a landmark judgment in April 2014, the Supreme Court awarded transgenders the right to identify themselves as distinct from male or female and as belonging to the “third gender”. It also directed the central and state governments “to take steps to treat them as socially and educationally backward classes of citizens”. The judgment goes on to address, in great detail, such issues as the need for proper healthcare facilities and separate toilets for transgenders. A year on, the best that has happened, is another official progression — the vote in favour, last month, of a private member bill in the Rajya Sabha on transgender rights. “We were all so happy when the Supreme Court judgment came in. States such as Bihar, Odisha, Karnataka, West Bengal and Jharkhand had started talks to create welfare boards for transgenders. But the Modi government filed a petition in the Supreme Court seeking more clarifications on the verdict. This made all the states put the issue on the back burner,” says Abhina Aher, a transgender hijra woman working as programme manager at India HIV/AIDS Alliance. It cannot be denied, though, that transgenders are beginning to be given their rightful place in society. “It has given us an identity, helped increase the access of the community to things that were hitherto inaccessible for us,” says Mumbai-based transgender activist Lakshmi Narayan Tripathi. Today, transgenders can get voter identity cards and have bank accounts. Since the verdict, a few, like Mumbai’s Satyashri Sharmila, have come to hold passports with a transgender identity. However, transgenders still aren’t accepted by the mainstream. “Most people don’t even know the meaning of the term transgender. For them it only means hijras,” says Rudrani Chhettri Chauhan, a transgender activist from the capital. For generations, Indians have had an uncomfortable truce with the hijra community. Their blessings are sought at births and weddings, but most people would not be happy to share their daily space with hijras. “Recently, one person refused to take back a bottle of water he gave me because I had touched it,” remembers Sita, an activist who is a member of the kinnar (Sanskrit for hijra) community. For most, the rejection starts at home. Over the years, the dialogue surrounding even more unfamiliar terms such as ‘transmen and women’ and ‘gender queer’ has done little to improve the mainstream’s understanding of or sensitivity towards transgender people. “On public transport people poke at my breasts to see if they are real,” says Abhina.
The desire to have a physical self that complements their psychological identity drives many to opt for the scalpel. Traditional methods of castration followed at hijra tolis have, for many, given way to hormone therapies, laser hair removal procedures and sex reassignment surgery (SRS). “But these are often so expensive and there is so little knowledge about safe standard procedures, that, often, one is driven to the doctor who quotes the minimum rates. Many of them are just quacks and health hazards are high,” says Amrita, a transwoman social worker and activist. If the surgery is successful, the transgender gets the outward physical appearance she desires but finer details like her voice often continues to strike a false note. The surgery also does little to remove the loneliness that is an innate part of most of their lives. “Every transwoman gets proposals from thousands of men. But in 90 per cent of these cases the men just want to use the transwoman sexually,” says Rose Venkatesan, a former transgender radio jockey and television host, who feels her former workplaces used her as a curiosity item to raise their TRPs. “To give a transgender a third gender identity without decriminalising section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, which criminalises any form on non peno-vaginal sex is to give them gender identity without the right to practice their sexuality,” says Mumbai-based activist Ashok Row Kavi. There are other pressing practical worries too. “According to our data, only about five to ten per cent of transgenders have even completed school. Without education, the only means of earning open to them is begging and sex work,” says Chennai-based transgender activist, author and actor Kalki Subramaniam. The Supreme Court verdict directs the governments to “extend all kinds of reservation in cases of admission in educational institutions and for public appointments”. Following the verdict, some universities included the transgender category in their admission forms. “But many transgenders drop out at the school level because of discrimination and abuse. The boys would feel me up, corner me and force me to masturbate or provide them with oral sex,” remembers 22-year-old Ritika. The harassment that starts at school follows most to the workplace. Twenty-six-year-old Natasha was forced to leave her job at a call centre when she her identity of a transwoman was disclosed. “Offices need to have a no discrimination policy in place. Just as schools and colleges should include gender awareness studies in their curriculum,” says Malobika, an activist from Kolkata.
Far from the tension surrounding transgender rights, in her one-room home inside the Mehendiyan graveyard, Mona Ahmed — Delhi’s best known transgender — watches a Bhojpuri show on television. Years ago, Mona says, she had dreams of helping the hijras, and had even founded the “All India Unique Welfare Association”. She received no support from the community. “Those hijras involved in badhai work have money and respect. They don’t want a conventional job,” she says. But Noori says that “like every man or woman, the transgender wants to be able to choose what she wants in life.” Until she can, Noori and others like her will continue to wear unisex clothes when they leave the comfort zone of the transgender community to visit their birth families.