The Unspoken Pain.

 The extreme contrast to Bangalore, where I was born and raised, and the busy streets’ intense tropical heat and noise shocked me when I visited Bombay ( now Mumbai) for the first time in the middle of the 1980s. Motivated by my new business endeavour, I was determined to traverse this city’s tumultuous rhythm by taking local trains despite the difficult circumstances.

As the months passed, I began to discern the subtle currents that kept Mumbai functioning harmoniously, even in its seeming chaos. I witnessed something profoundly moving during a fateful commute on the local train, a lifeline for millions. Amid this frenzied journey, an unspoken agreement existed among hijras (transgender individuals), beggars, and street vendors.

These marginalised groups coexisted in a delicate dance, never overwhelming any compartment. They moved gracefully from one carriage to another at each station, their presence a testament to their resilience. On one memorable occasion, as we reached Churchgate, two passengers entered simultaneously from opposite ends, forever etching their stories in my memory.

The first was a burly Hijra, wearing a lemon-green ‘saree’ adorned with white flowers. Her silent, hesitant clapping for alms revealed a deep weariness, as if she feared human contact. The second, a young boy with an unwavering voice, peddled inexpensive everyday items with little success. They both stood by the train door, staring into the abyss, sharing an unspoken connection forged by their hardships.

Then, something extraordinary happened. The Hijra extended a 10-rupee note to the boy. “Take this, son.” The Hijra shouted to be heard above the noise of the speeding train. He reached out to give her a paperclip, but she just shook her head. ‘No’—the money was a beggar’s gift for him.

Was the gift because of her fondness for children? Was it because she desired her children and could not have them? Was it one of those attachments that brought the underprivileged together? A beggar’s gift, a token of generosity, moved me to my core. Questions filled my mind: Was it her love for children, her unfulfilled desire for motherhood, or a bond born from shared struggles that prompted this act?

I did not know. I did not know anything about Hijras at all.

 I was deeply touched by what I saw when the boy accepted the gift. I saw there was a quiet joy in Hijra’s sorrow. Her eyes were filled with tears. She appeared to be happy for that one minute of her life.

 Over the weekend, I started reading and learning about transgender people. Many Indians regard hijras with discomfort and derision. They are socially not accepted. They are objects of abuse and discrimination. They are exploited, isolated, threatened, and denied jobs, housing, healthcare, and dignity.

 I delved into the world of transgender individuals, particularly Hijras. I learned their existence in India was characterised by discomfort, mockery, and discrimination. They faced exploitation, isolation, and denial of fundamental human rights. Until that day, I had never considered their plight, merely viewing them as different.

I learned that Hijras occupied a special place in India in ancient times. But their relationship with modern Mumbai, where transgender people are legally recognised, remains fraught. The recognition of transgender people’s rights has advanced in recent years. The Supreme Court of India acknowledged transgender individuals as members of the third gender in 2014 and upheld their constitutional rights, which include freedom from discrimination and equality.

My perspective shifted as I read about their painful experiences and realised the unique place Hijras hold in Indian history. Despite legal recognition as the third gender and some progress, their lives remain fraught with challenges. I began to see that their journey, filled with pain and distress, was also one of compassion and resilience.

Today, Hijras are impossible to overlook, bedecked in glittering attire, their faces masked with inexpensive makeup. They bless those who offer alms, dance at temples, and crash into extravagant celebrations, leaving with pockets full of currency notes. Yet, their lives are far from straightforward; their quest for love and self-respect mirrors ours.

My encounter with that Hijra on the train—that quiet exchange of humanity—ignited a transformation within me. Like everyone else, I realised I had once merely stared at them for being different without understanding their lives. I decided to learn more, hear their tales, and acknowledge their difficulties. Through this process, I realised that we are not all that dissimilar from one another—we all desire love, empathy, and the chance to lead honourable, loving lives.

Intersex and transgender people are among the hijras who are becoming more and more apparent. Dressed in glittering dresses, their faces heavily coated in cheap makeup, they sashay through crowded intersections, knocking on car windows with the edge of a coin and offering blessings. They dance at temples. They gate-crash at fancy weddings and birth ceremonies, singing bawdy songs and leaving with fistfuls of currency notes.

It’s not easy to be different. A Hijra’s life is a journey of pain and distress.

 But we forget that they are just like us.

 They are compassionate.

 They are kind.

 They battle daily to make ends meet.

 Like all of us, they aspire to love and respect themselves.

 That day, I gave more thought to them. Like everyone else, I used to stare at them for being different and never really try to understand their life and lifestyle.

 I changed my opinion. I started reading about the Hijras and their painful stories.

We don’t need to make the extra effort to stand up for them. Please do that, but at the very least, we could treat them with the dignity they merit. Consider them to be regular folks.

 Live and live.