The Truth about me - A sad commentary on our attitude toward hijras

I was browsing the racks of MyLib, Jayanagar when I came across this title. I remembered a friend wanting to read stories of Hijras and other sexual minorities and so immediately decided to borrow it. Back home, I started reading the first few pages and was hooked.

Haven't we all seen hijras near traffic signals, in trains and in railway stations? What is the first feeling we experience on seeing them? Please give it a thought. Speaking for myself, I have experienced fear and a strange anxiety. When they have approached me, I have always increased my pace and avoided them.

This true story of Revathi, born Doraisamy in Tamilnadu, is by turns sad and shocking with rays of hope emerging, only to vanish into darkness. She asks in the autobiographical account (Originally Unarvum Uruvamum in Tamil and translated by V. Geetha into English):

"If society scorns us, then we turn to our families, if we have a family. But if family scorns us, who do we turn to? Is this why people like me do not stay in touch with their families? Could not God have created me as a man or a woman? Why did He make me this way? Why is He savouring this spectacle that He created? In a rage, hitting my head against the wall, I began to cry."

The book recounts Revathi's struggles, hopes, fears and wishes. It is a mirror that shows our society in a very poor light for the way we treat hijras. Revathi shares her experiences living with fellow hijras in Delhi, Mumbai and Bangalore. In each of these cities, she is exploited and treated with disdain. During her visits to her hometown, she is mocked by the public when she travels by local buses. However, not everything in the book is disheartening. Revathi is cared for by fellow hijras and the odd non hijra. Her family hates her and loves her. Eventually, they seem to accept her for who she is.

We are also exposed to the inner world of the Hijra community, their rituals, traditions and language. Paampaduthi, chelas, gurubais, guru, naani, kaalgurus, nirvaanam, pottai, danda - words that disturbingly get into the reader's head and work their way through his conscious to imprint themselves firmly and powerfully.

What I find inspiring about the book is the author's - Revathi's - resolve to keep going. She seems to get up everyday and as a Hijra, does her chores with a resolve and strength of character that many of us would shudder to even think about! For this reason alone, it is a must read.

Those days - My love affair with books

My love affair with books started, thanks to my mother and cousin brother. I remember days when I used to go to the annual Chennai book fair with my mother. Oh, how crowded those stalls used to be and how many stalls! It was my cousin brother who introduced me to the world of Famous Five. Julian, Dick, Timothy, George and Anna, if I remember the characters right. It was as if someone pulled the curtains aside to reveal a whole new world, a world much more colourful and adventurous, when compared to the small town life I was leading.

I am unable to recollect when I started reading serious fiction. It was probably not until the first year of my college education. I used to commute from Maraimalainagar to Chrompet, a distance of ~22 kilometres by Chennai's local trains and my favourite pastime during those everyday journeys used to be books. Thanks to my membership at the British Council library in Chennai, I got access to a wide plethora of authors.

Even a break of 3 or 4 hours between classes and I used to catch a bus and head to the library in Mount road. Patiently I used to browse the collection there. There must have been 2 to 3 racks dedicated to works of fiction but what a treasure trove it was. After an hour or so of intense browsing and weighing of options, I used to pick up the one or two books I was eligible to take as part of the membership and then the love affair would start.

F Dostoevsky, Jose Saramago, Iris Murdoch, Christopher Isherwood, Salman Rushdie, Rohinton Mistry, JM Coetzee, Amit Choudhri, Somerset Maugham, J Krishnamurti, Isabel Allende, Abdulrazak Gurnah, Pat Barker, Helen Dunmore, Amartya Sen, David Davidhar, Kazuo Ishiguro, Khushwant Singh and Orhan Pamuk - Each of these authors, I got introduced to only through that wonderful library. Then there was this set of two or three Orkut friends who I connected with and I started reading the books they talked about and recommended. I remember a phase of classics, a phase of second world war based novels and a phase of novels based on stories set in conflict ridden zones.

As I read, I started maintaining a diary. My own private journal in which I used to jot down the extracts I loved most. Now, am in my second diary but I have sadly become less disciplined. Nowadays, even if I like something I read, I am too lazy to open that diary, take a pen and jot it down. Perhaps, I should not be!

Thanks to an acquaintance I got connected to today, I felt the necessity to put this down. Perhaps, it was long due.

What can then?

The following piece is an assignment I wrote as part of the Bangalore Writers Workshop. We had to write 2 to 6 pages with the following conditions:

1. We had to construct a scene in the room where our workshop sessions take place
2. Have real participants of the workshop as part of the story and
3. Talk about a cause

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“How do you arrest the attention of the reader right from the beginning?”

“Do we need to?”

“I thought, it is absolutely necessary”

“Maybe. But honesty and a genuine voice can make up for an ordinary start”

“I concur. What is important is that even if the start is arresting, what follows should be equally compelling!”

It was the fourth session of the bangalore writers workshop and I had begun to love the motley group, I found myself a part of. Sarayu had sparked the interesting discussion about, how possibly, a writer can capture his reader’s attention powerfully in the beginning of his piece. We were beginning to discuss our first reading for the day – an excerpt from Color Purple. I had volunteered to occassionally click pictures during the course of our discussions. When I focused the camera on Diya, her eyes were keenly scanning the course material. In a black shirt and blue jeans, Diya looked simple and elegant but something was bothering her. I was trying to read her expression.  Sitting in-between pulp specialist Manjula and Rheea,  she clearly looked flustered.  

We had been the first few people to reach the class. Our facilitators, Bhumika and Rheea must have been catching up with the news as the television was tuned into Times Now.  Manjula was recounting how her kid was not letting her go to the class by refusing to eat. Diya had walked in when the television was beaming images of a shocked girl who was subjected to abuse by her own uncle. The girl was clearly a minor and had no clue how to tackle the nosy media. Apparently, her uncle had forced her to strip when her parents were out of town. He had fondled her on earlier occassions and the girl was too confused to resist his advances and weird behavior. Bhumika had switched off the television with a sigh. 

Colour Purple is the story of a poor, uneducated, black girl and the extract dealt with her rape and abuse at the hands of her own father. The coincidence with the television news could not be more ironical.  

“I find that not much has changed from the 1930s”, said Anindita. A big fan of Lionel Messi,  she couldn’t have put it better, much like the sharp penalty kicks by her favorite player.

“One of my friends went through something like this”

We turned in unison toward Diya. There was a deathly hush. Rheea switched off the AC and it was as if, the air in the room was getting sucked out. I focused on the calendar hanging on the wall right opposite.  The cover for september showed a little girl clutching the hands of her mother and smiling shyly toward the camera.  It could have melted anyone’s heart. 

“It began when she was eight. He would kiss her hard on the lips, squeeze her bums and press her breasts. He would lift her high into the air in mock joviality. We were good friends since childhood and poor thing, she did not know why her father was doing this.” 

“Did her mother not know anything at all?”, Gitanjali asked, all curious and wearing an incredulous expression. 

“She eventually got to know but not when Teresa was eight. Teresa finally realized that something was not right! At fifteen, if your father says he can hug you only by fondling you all over,  oh no, why am I talking all this now?”

 The door opened and Anna came in to see if any of us needed coffee or tea. As if a spell was broken, the chairs creaked. None of us ordered anything. With a “Thank you sir”, Bhumika saw him out. 

“It is okay Diya, it is always good to talk about these things”, said Rheea. 

“I am frustrated that many of us go through things like this and yet remain silent.”

“Not any more. We should not. What is the use of our freedom if we continue to remain silent!” 

There was a faint urgency to Gitanjali’s voice. 

“Every other day, some guy or the other drives his bike so close to me”

“And some guys stare and stare with no shame at all!” 

“Please don’t think all men are the same”, interjected Pradip. 

“Ofcourse, we are not saying that!”, Diya was quick to respond. 

I could not resist any longer. “Perhaps, as a society we are going through a phase of transition. We have more women entering the workforce, sometimes displacing men, we have more girls passing out of our colleges…but this incident is just not about women. It is about child sexual abuse” 

“A society that tolerates child sexual abuse is a society that can tolerate rape! We are just not punishing these animals enough”, Diya was fuming. 

“No Diya, I am not defending anyone, sorry, if you misunderstood me. We heard yesterday that four men have been given death sentence for raping Nirbhaya. Do you think, it will change the way men look at women?”

“Hardly. It is a change that has to begin at home, that has to come when growing up. It is sad, but I think death sentence will not change anything”, Rheea’s voice had a tinge of calm assurance. 

“What can then?”

The mute spectator

The following piece is an assignment I wrote as part of Bangalore Writers Workshop.  We had to write 2 to 6 pages on 'Art inspires Art'. My inspiration was a painting by the Dutch painter, Vincent Van Gogh.

He entered the old rail station. Aren’t all rail stations the same, no matter where they are? After all, they only serve to transit people from one place to the other, acting as mute spectators to journeys of mankind. But, somehow, he sensed that this station had a certain charm to it. Was it because a church overlooked it and at this time of the day, one could see the setting sun beyond it? Was it because it was the final station for all trains leaving Austria and entering Germany? Did this fact lend the station an air of finality? Or was it because it rarely saw any visitors? Maybe, it was a combination of all this and something else… 

It had two low benches on each of its two platforms and right behind these benches were the blue colored ticketing machines of the Austrian rail company. His train was not due until 18.00. A chill breeze disturbed the lone can of coke on the platform causing it to rattle across hither and thither. His thoughts wandered…the day had been a tough one. He had just visited his parents and was on his way back to the city. Though they appeared to be doing well, it was quite evident that age was catching up with them quickly. His father’s voice had lost that spark he loved so much and his mother walked with a certain stoop. 

In the last year, since his last visit, the village’s economy had shrunk further. The supermarket, post office, bank and fuel station appeared to be mere remnants of much better times. With the young men and women migrating to cities in search of greener pastures, all that was left of the village was the ageing parents.  Left to themselves, they were too proud to move to the cities. When farming and small businesses were thriving, the village was a lively place. Of late though, it had become a phantom society populated by retired workers. Life seemed to have relegated the village to such a remote corner of its canvas that even the lightest of brushstrokes were impossible. 

A train arrived at the platform opposite. An old lady alighted with her dog by her side. Slowly and firmly, she made her way toward one of the two benches and sat herself down. Standing right across, he was able to see the crevices age had made on her face. She must have been beautiful once. Her face still retained a certain symmetry that must have lined admirers in another age. She carefully laid her walking stick aside. Her dog circled the bench a couple of times before getting bored. He sniffed at the walking stick and wagged his tail lazily. 

Five minutes passed. There was an absolute stillness except for the occasional howls when the breeze gathered pace. The old lady had not moved an inch. She was staring straight ahead. If our man on the platform opposite had moved himself straight into her line of vision and performed a wild dance, in all probability, she would have sat unmoved. There was a curious finality about her gaze. Was she trying to strain herself imagining the future that lay ahead or was she dipping into her memories and reliving them, one by one? How long would she rest like this gazing into nothingness? Was she waiting for someone to come and pick her up? Or was she waiting for the Sun to set before beginning her walk home? 

 

Just when he began imagining the worst, the dog tugged at her skirt. He hopped on to the bench and laid his head on the lady’s lap. This prompted a touching gesture from the lady. She ran her hand gently across the dog’s face beginning from his ears. The dog moaned and snuggled closer to her bosom. 

He shifted his gaze. The countryside surrounding the station was beautiful. Vast expanse of fields on one side lent it an eerie silence. In the distance beyond the church, the Sun was expending the last rays of its shine for the day.  It was the onset of autumn when days become shorter and the air, colder…soon trees would begin shedding their leaves forming beautifully colored blankets.  

He could not help recollect a poem by his most favorite English poet – ‘To Autumn’ by John Keats where he poses: “Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?”  At his age, when the World seemed so full of possibilities, this was a disconcerting thought, evoked perhaps by a combination of his pensive mood and the darkness that was quickly taking over. 

 His journey from this village to the city had not been easy. His childhood was spent cycling and hiking in the ranges bordering the village. As he grew up, he could see that his friends were moving out to pursue university education in the cities. Few came back. Deep down, he did not want to go. So, when he finally did leave, he left with a heavy heart. Memories of the village life used to catch him unaware.

In the beginning, he used to visit often and at every possible opportunity, but slowly, the city devoured his personality. Like a cobra gobbling up its prey, he got slowly drawn in by what it had to offer. The frequency of his visits came down and along with it, his love for the village life.

Something about this evening made him reminisce. The old lady was standing up and picking her walking stick. The dog appeared listless and irritated as if he was forced out of his peaceful reverie. As the lady made her way toward the exit, a bus pulled in. A couple disembarked, presumably people working in the village’s bank.  They held each other’s hand and as they passed by the old lady, wished her a good evening.  

The couple reached the platform he was waiting in and locked each other in a gentle embrace. Their arrival and their cheerful mien lifted his spirits. He thought of his girlfriend waiting for his return. Lights came on to illuminate the desolate platform. The hands of the church clock became visible in the distance. He could not help but think, he just witnessed an unusual change of seasons: from the gloominess accompanying autumn to the promise accompanying spring, albeit a delusional one. As if on cue, the breeze picked up. A sense of relief washed over him. 

He wanted to shout out an answer to the long departed poet: “Here are the songs of spring!” If he had, his voice would have been drowned by the sound of the arriving train.

On choosing a partner...

I was talking to a friend a few days back. She is someone whose philosophy toward life I hold in high regard, someone whose clarity of thought is impressive, who walks with such a degree of self assurance that you tend to think, confidence ought to be her natural ally!

I was reminiscing about our college days when something that she had told me then came back vividly, the trigger being the fact that she has chosen her life partner now. Back then, she had told me that two people should never imagine a future together if they are not "complete" individually. To elaborate, if I seek something to feel "complete", I should not look for a partner who will possess that "something" and by consequence, make me feel "complete".

She is an admirer of thought provoking literature and it is little wonder that she was able to put forward such a profound thought in so simple terms. As I discussed that philosophy with her, I could not help but think of the couples and relationships I have come across till date.

Some people look for their opposites in their partners thinking that opposites attract and the union would sustain by virtue of the novelty each partner would see in the other. Some others enter into relationship because of some attribute in their partner that they find very appealing. Because people change over time, this attribute that drew them in the first place might lose its appeal and a weariness begins to set in. In this case, the relationship starts off with a one sided attraction that turns into an obsession and evolves to a state where one becomes very much dependent on the other.

Some people keep it simple and have physical attractiveness as a criteria conveniently ignoring the fact that while the body can age fast, it is the mind that can remain sharp over a longer period! Some others simplify by looking for things that they themselves have in lesser measure, money, status, gregariousness etc. This is not different from looking for opposites. A few others prefer looking for similarities in taste and interests.

The common thread that runs across all these people is that they "look" for something in their partner. They might either lack what they look for or they might think that by looking for something definite and specific, they can make their own situation better. This is like a person trying to switch a job in search of a better pay and a better profile to augment his skills and lifestyle! The funniest part is when people think they are in "love" when they are doing this!

Aren't we better off not seeking anything in a partner, in other words, feeling a deep sense of contentment in ourselves before looking for a partner? If only, as my friend said, we feel "complete" and we realize that true happiness can only ensue by individual striving and inner peace, we would choose wisely: We would choose someone who is able to tolerate us, who accepts us as we are without wanting to change us, who is confident enough not to indulge in petty possessiveness, who is generous enough to accommodate our tastes and interests and give us the space we need to be ourselves...!

Will forever remain indebted to this wonderful friend who is a source of inspiration in many aspects...! 

Sometimes, A stroll is all one needs to feel lighter...

Man is a funny animal. Whatever he does, he has the ability to come up with a justification. I have seen this happen with myself so many times that I have come to terms with it. Excuse, justification, defensive behavior, lack of will, call it whatever you will, as we get older, we begin to accumulate this and over time, it weighs us down.

Life is like a journey and the lighter we travel, the better we can move around and take in different sights. A traveler who makes the mistake of packing too much along his journey will eventually grow tired of traveling. He would want to stay put at a place so that he can arrange all around him, the accoutrements that he has gotten used to. Our excuses for our mistakes are in a sense like the unnecessary baggage a traveler carries. The more we pile them up, the more crippled we become.

I was pondering this when I realized that I had been rushing like a mad man even though I was only returning from work. The long steps I was taking were tiring my legs and the peak hour noise was taking a toll on my nerves. When I slowed down, it felt as if I had suddenly entered the world of slow-motion cinema! I consciously slowed my pace and to my amusement, it was difficult to slow down...

The effect of my slowing down was quite dramatic. Suddenly, I could feel the cool breeze. I reached home, changed, went to the terrace to get the clothes I had put out to dry after washing. The crescent moon in the far distance appeared out of place after all the commotion, jostling, noise and the unceasing throng of people on the streets. In no mood to return to the apartment soon, I took in the breeze and continued to gaze at the moon.

Visions of all the treks and cycling I have enjoyed in the nature came in spurts and within a few moments, I felt lighter. A wave of happiness surged through my veins and I resolved not to forget this experience. An incoherent stream of thoughts, one inexplicably leading to the next had sparked this.

In life, no matter what the circumstances are, no matter what adversities we get subjected to and subject ourselves to, no matter who lends us a hand and who does not, no matter what quirks of fate await us, it is important to live lighter. To experience what I mean, get out of the cities, get out of the confining walls of your living spaces, get out of your routine, however meaningful your work is, get out of all that is chaining you to noise. Escape to the vast expanse of nature, escape to the mountains, forests and seashores. Subject your senses to the purest of pleasures that only nature can offer. The soul will automatically disentangle itself from all the baggage that is holding it down and soar...!

The people who matter!

Sometimes, life deals its cards in strange ways. It throws us in contact with people who love us and the people we love at the same time. It constantly reinforces the fact that no relationship starts equally. 

With the people who love us, we take things for granted. We are inconsiderate, sometimes insensitive, sometimes irritable and have no qualms in showing them our ugly natures, all inadvertently of course. Rarely do we act with complete awareness of our actions. If we are aware, we would not be blind.

With the people who we love, we obsess, fuss and behave like a shadow following their trail. We hope that one day they would notice the sincerity of our emotions and accord us a glance. Our thoughts center around them and we become ever so vulnerable when they are in our midst. 

What happens when we ignore the people who care for us and understand us only to pursue the people who never understand us, are too busy with their own priorities to give us any time? Our hearts become heavy, our steps slow, our emotions a farce and our lives shallow...we end up devastated.

Life offers us many opportunities to choose. Life offers us many opportunities to heal. Life offers us many opportunities to care, empathize and love! As someone famous remarked, "we are our choices". To be able to choose, it is imperative that we are aware, aware of our actions and aware of the choices we have. The people who matter will always see us for what we are and reciprocate our affections. Ultimately, any relationship is sustainable only if it evolves enough so that both parties become the people who matter for each other! It can sway one way or the other over time but it must be anchored well enough to withstand the swaying!