by Anosh Irani
- Saris
- Bangles
- Jewellery
- Food
- Hand mirrors
- Makeup
- Nail polish
- Rent
- Chappals
- Salwar kameez
- Table fan
- Bulbul’s gift
Gurumai had even charged Madhu for the new table fan she had bought. Madhu had complained about the heat, and the fan had been purchased for her comfort. But Madhu could never get a single breeze from that fan. No hair of hers had moved because of it.
Madhu had no clue what “Bulbul’s gift” had been, but she knew why Bulbul had to be given one. When a new hijra was inducted into the fold through the Nirvan ceremony, the hijra attending to the inductee had to be given a gift. Without Madhu’s knowledge, Bulbul had been given two new salwars, new chappals, and a gold bangle.
Gurumai said she had not even listed the fee she would have to pay to the hijra elders on Madhu’s behalf, as she did for every new member. The conclusion was clear: Madhu was no better than a slave who would have to crawl her way out of debt. When Madhu asked Bulbul why she was not wearing the gold bangle she’d been given, she looked at Madhu as though she was stupidity multiplied by eternity. The bangle was locked in gurumai’s treasury for safekeeping. This was business. This was Bombay. It had not become the financial capital of the country by twiddling its thumbs.
Madhu’s mother had given birth to her. Gurumai owned her.
So at sixteen, Madhu started repaying the loan. She chose Gajja, a drunken man ten years her senior who had a shattered heart and barely remembered who he slept with. She chose love. Love opened her legs. It was manufactured love, no doubt. It was imagined; it was hoped for. It was, in reality, just a smelly tongue down her throat and a hard one up her behind, but Madhu made it something else. To this day, it had lasted.
But now she had to tell Gajja that she could not leave Bombay with him.
She had been in the wild too long. The normal was terrifying. The normal was being a man’s something, as opposed to a nothing. She had been invisible so long. Any form of respectability would give her shape, start putting her back together. But what if the parts didn’t fit? What if, in her new avatar, she turned out to be even more peculiar?
She was fine. She was content with what life had given her. That was the lie she held on to in the cinema hall.
The parcel had fallen asleep against her shoulder. The pain must have knocked her out. Madhu looked at the girl’s face. It was so still in the light that glanced off the movie screen, it almost made her want to stroke the parcel’s cheek. On her other side sat the man she cared for. In this darkened hall, she felt slightly human. Perhaps it had to do with the name of the theatre: Roshan. It had brought a little light into her life. Choti batti—that’s what the parcels used to be called anyway.
The parcel breathed against Madhu’s arm. Thin streams of air from those tender nostrils tickled Madhu’s skin: touch without being touched. Even Gajja had fallen asleep. His snore was disturbing the couple in the row ahead. The woman turned her head and looked at Madhu, hoping that she would nudge Gajja to stop.
Madhu would do nothing of the sort.
Instead, she smiled at her. It was not an apology, but a form of ownership. This man was hers. Let him rest, he had earned it. This child too.
The woman smiled back.
She had mistaken Madhu for a woman. For ages, Madhu had tried to embrace womanhood, but her desperation made her stumble and she had become a pathetic parody. In this moment, Gajja and the parcel had made her complete.
She smiled; she truly believed that a woman did not need a man and a child to be complete, or without whom she was vapour. Yet she suddenly felt proud. She was giggling inside, skipping, jumping, doing all the things she had been too ashamed to do as a boy on the school playground.
She was with her family.
She pressed her nose against Gajja’s stubble and took in the scent of booze and hospitals. It was the warmest smell she knew. She had to be careful not to wake them up. The minute they woke up, this feeling would stop. They would become real.
Some relationships lasted a lifetime; hers would last for the remainder of this movie. Sometimes life offered you a lesser version of a dream. She chose to take it.
10
When Madhu returned from the movie, the mood in Hijra House was tense. The day of the jamaat always made gurumai scowl. She had told Madhu many times that had it not been for the fact that she ran a brothel, she would have been a nayak, one of the seven hijra leaders of Bombay.
When gurumai was much younger, she had openly questioned the council’s refusal to acknowledge that hijras were involved in sex work. Her argument was simple: Offering blessings in exchange for money was a predatory act. It thrived on people’s superstitions and fears, and there was no proof that the blessings worked. So why were the hijras who did this work considered respectable when their income was built on a lie? On the other hand, prostitution was real. It was as honest a job as butchering or baking. “And it works,” she had joked, much to the amusement of some of the younger hijras. But her views were not entertained.
Gurumai’s anxiety was not helped by the fact that all the members of Hijra House were glued to the TV that afternoon. The whole nation was in an uproar over a recent crime. Six billion souls were passionately demanding the blood of three men who had raped a bride on her wedding night. One of the men was her neighbour. Until last night, everyone had wanted the rapists dead. Now a new solution had been proposed.
“Castrate them,” said the female lawyer on TV. “Let the animals live. Don’t kill them. Let them live.”
There was applause from the studio crowd. A politician who sat next to the lawyer agreed. He was pushing for the reinstatement of an old law, formed during British rule, that would allow rapists’ penises to be severed.
“Perhaps the death penalty is not enough,” he said. “Maybe castration is a bigger deterrent. These people need to be humiliated. Make them hijras.”
When she heard that, gurumai’s back slumped, as if there were no vertebrae holding her up. “What they’re saying is that our existence is a fate worse than death. I don’t think they will ever understand us,” she said.
Madhu silently agreed. The debate shouldn’t become about hijras, But when would the third gender come first?
“Shut that shit off,” said gurumai, when the program broke for a commercial.
Madhu glanced at her. Gurumai was determined to look her best today, but she was struggling. The sweat on her face gave her away. Strands of her silvery hair stuck to her forehead, and there were heavy, wet stains under her armpits. She had told Madhu that she did not want to take Dr. Kyani’s painkillers because she had to remain sharp for the council meeting later on. And now the debate on TV was depressing her as much as it was Madhu.
Madhu was as hopeful as everyone else that the accused would pay for the vileness of their act. But in the pursuit of justice, why were the hijras being spat upon? For her and her sisters, castration was a pathway to a higher life. It’s what gave them respect. It also bothered Madhu how much coverage this incident was getting: a bride had been violated on that most sacred of nights. But what about ordinary women on ordinary nights? Or indecent women, perhaps, like sex workers? Or hijras? What happened when less-than-ordinary souls got violated? Why not create a furor then? Why let their pain slide away like rainwater into a gutter?
“Ladies and gentlemen, let me bring your attention to the hijras, women, and children of Kamathipura,” she would have said if she had been on that show. Here, in Hijra Gulli, everyone had a hideous memory or two lying around in their pockets like small change. And, like small change, they were considered insignificant.
Just as Madhu was about to sink into a pool of gloom, gurumai asked her to massage her legs. Even though Madhu was tired, the physicality of the task started to ease her mind. The purrs of pleasure that came as every drop of Ayurvedic oil seeped
into gurumai’s calves, calmed Madhu as well. Somehow gurumai always managed to settle her down. But that feeling quickly dissipated when Umesh showed up with his real estate woes.
“Forgive me,” said Umesh. “I should have called.”
“I’d offer you some chai, but you won’t be staying long,” gurumai said.
“What I have to say will only take a minute.”
“Then why say it at all?”
Umesh looked around the room. He noticed the incense sticks, the thin white smoke curving toward the ceiling.
“You had the place cleaned?” he asked.
“Yes,” said gurumai. “In your honour. I had a feeling you’d be back.” She offered Madhu her other leg. Now the left calf needed looking after.
“The stables are going to be shut down,” said Umesh.
At the mention of the stables, gurumai’s calves tightened. Madhu doubted that Umesh understood that the stables of Kamathipura had a special place in gurumai’s heart. Very few people knew that she had slept in the hay on her first night in Kamathipura with the horses for company.
“The inspector paid a surprise visit,” he said. “He found that the horses were too thin and were stepping in their own shit and urine.”
“Many humans also step in their own shit and urine. What’s your point?”
“The builder I work for is buying the stables.”
“Congratulations,” said gurumai. “Would you like a laddoo?”
“Look…,” said Umesh, trying to contain himself. He shuffled about, searching for his next words. Gurumai was skilfully pricking his ego with the edge of a dai-ma’s knife, but he was taking it better than Madhu would have expected. He must really want Hijra House.
“We have also acquired the steel mills at Two Tanks,” he said. “And I’m here to make an honest offer.”
“I don’t doubt your offer,” said gurumai. “You are honest about buying, and I am honest about not selling. I’m not saying this to get a higher price. This is not just our home; it’s our grave. We will die here.”
“Then why not die richer? We are not asking you to relocate. Once the new building comes up, you will have flats to stay in. You and your chelas can still live here, but in better conditions.”
“Please don’t insult me by making such a statement.”
“You will have it in writing.”
“Like the residents of Bachuseth Ki Wadi? Once the new building went up, no one wanted to live next door to prostitutes and bar dancers. We are allowed on paper, but never in people’s hearts.”
“If that’s how you feel, we can consider giving you a small unit on the side.”
“Look at him,” gurumai said to Madhu. “We have not even moved in and already he is throwing us out!”
“I can offer you a crore for this place. You and I both know it is not worth that much.”
“Then why offer? Why do you need this hole?”
“Because this hole is causing an even bigger one in our pocket. There are two builders fighting to get a contract to redevelop Kamathipura. Whoever gets a seventy per cent majority can go to the government and bid for the contract. We have spent a lot of money on bribes so the contract doesn’t go to the rival builder. But even bribes have an expiry date. So this place is important to us.”
“The only time they need us is when they want us to leave,” said gurumai to Madhu.
Then she moved her leg away from Madhu and sat up straight. “Go tell your builder he does not have my vote.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Umesh. “If you do change your mind, you have until tonight. After that, there’s nothing I can do.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“All I’m saying is that the horses in those stables have been standing in their own shit for years. Someone finally noticed.”
Gurumai spat the tobacco she was chewing into her spittoon as a last word to Umesh. He left, disgruntled but not defeated. There was a sly grin on his face.
“He’s too confident,” said Madhu. “He knows something.”
“He can know how to make his own mother come. I’m not selling.”
—
Although she kept her mouth shut out of respect, Madhu was convinced that gurumai was in no condition to attend the jamaat. It had been months since she had walked down the stairs of Hijra House. And indeed, halfway down, her knees buckled and she started coughing; Bulbul quickly borrowed a chair from one of the carrom players outside. After sitting for about fifteen minutes, gurumai finally managed to get into the waiting taxi. Madhu and Bulbul climbed in beside her.
The building where the jamaat was being held was called “Lucky Compound,” and even though it wasn’t in the greatest shape, it was definitely more fortunate than its namesake in the suburbs, a newly built structure that had suddenly collapsed one night. This original still-standing Lucky Compound had been given as a gift to the hijra elders. Only the elders knew who the benefactor was, and gurumai often said that if she could find out who this person was, she would approach him with a business venture. She wanted to open up franchises, like the McDonald’s that had sprung up a short distance from Kamathipura, on Bellasis Road. Her idea was to open small McBrothels that could be duplicated in all the main metros. Then she’d have a business card that she could stick up the bums of the elders. Perhaps they’d finally accept that prostitution was just as respectable as other hijra occupations. For now, she was entering the jamaat on unequal footing. If she hadn’t been a dai-ma, she’d have been asked to stand in a corner and would have been given no respect at all.
Madhu had attended many gatherings before, and she could sense that as the hijra leaders got older, their hunger for respect increased. As their bones turned brittle, money and power were the only forms of calcium that worked. Each of the seven hijra houses of Bombay was represented: Haji Ibrahimwala, Poonawala, Dongriwala, Bhendi Bazaarwala, Lalanwala, Lashkarwala, and Chaklawala. Each clan had one leader, the nayak. But above all of these mighty chiefs was one supreme commander: Bindu nayak, leader of the Haji Ibrahimwala clan. Her clan was considered the most superior of the lot, and the hijras of that house walked with that knowledge in mind.
The nayaks were seated in a closed circle on the ground. The rest of the hijras—scores of them crowded around their leaders—were never allowed to be part of the circle. They had to remain outside it. They were the debris. Madhu could not help but stare at one of the leaders, Kanta nayak. Her stomach was so large, one could have mistaken her for being pregnant if only she did not look like an old man. Gurumai always remarked that Kanta nayak needed two chelas around her at all times, one to carry the sagging skin on her jowls, and the other to support her belly. But her eyes were as sharp as a moneylender’s.
“You seem to be doing well,” Madhu heard Kanta nayak snidely remark to Samira nayak, referring to the jewellery the latter wore. Even though all the nayaks lived in the same building, sometimes they did not communicate with each other for weeks, focusing only on matters pertaining to their own clan. They were always locked in a silent power struggle, and a jamaat was the perfect venue for each to try to establish her supremacy.
“Maybe it is destiny that has brought us together tonight, for I have some disturbing news,” said Bindu nayak, addressing those gathered. “But first let us get a few matters out of the way.”
She started with one of Kanta’s chelas, who had been blacklisted six months ago for abusing her guru. She had spent the intervening months begging near the airport and was in ill health. She wanted to be readmitted to the clan.
“Munni, stand up,” said Bindu nayak.
From among the group of hijras, a lanky figure rose. She looked ashen, an effect heightened by the fact that the other hijras had put on makeup and she had not. She wore her hair in a bun, but it was still dishevelled, stubborn straw.
“Munni, what do you have to say for yourself?” asked Bindu nayak.
All the hijras stared at Munni. Madhu shivered. It was a hijra’
s greatest fear to be asked to leave the house she had sworn allegiance to. She would become an instant pariah.
“Speak, my child.”
Munni had nothing to say. She started shaking. The hijra next to her was clearly disturbed by her silence but was afraid of reaching out to her on account of the nayak Munni had offended. It would be interpreted as an insult.
“Munni, your offence was that you threw your guru’s spittoon back into her face. Then you called her a fat pig,” said Bindu nayak.
The offence was always stated aloud so the rest of the community could understand what constituted a punishable offence. It was also an opportunity to make Kanta nayak’s shame public. That was how Bindu nayak ruled: through humiliation.
“What do you have to say, Munni?”
Munni finally found the courage to look up at Bindu nayak. Her eyes were teary and bloodshot. She folded her hands together in Kanta nayak’s direction. There was no question about her sincerity.
“Kanta, do you take her back?” asked Bindu nayak.
“I’m sorry,” said Kanta nayak. “But after what she has done, I cannot accept her.”
“I understand,” said Bindu nayak.
Bindu nayak looked around the room. A hijra’s future would be decided in the next few minutes.
“Do we have any takers for Munni?” asked Bindu nayak. “What can you do, Munni? What are your special skills?”
Munni looked too underfed and tired to remember. She seemed defeated, like she’d already surrendered to the possibility that she would be spending another six months on the streets, without a roof, without a master.
It seemed no one was willing to take her.
“Fine,” said Bindu nayak.
She motioned to a disciple of hers, who took a steel tray and placed it at Kanta nayak’s feet. A red cloth lay in the centre of the tray. Madhu watched as Kanta nayak put her hand underneath the red cloth and raised it an inch or two. Apparently, there was an adequate amount of cash under the cloth, because she nodded her approval.
Bindu nayak was the only guru who could accept this miscreant now, and she had showed her magnanimity. She had accepted a hijra who was of almost no value. Munni stood rooted to the spot, waiting for the next move.