The Suicide Note
Consider this as the last entry of the diary of my life. I don’t even know why I am writing this. Tomorrow if I am lucky, this will be retrieved by the hawaldaar who might come to dispose my body off. If he is even half professional, this might even get a glance by an inspector. But let’s be realistic, who will be interested in the suicide of a Hijra? More probably, it will be thrown into the garbage by one of my illiterate sisters. I don’t blame them at all. After all, I am an outcast. My guru has ostracised me of the community. And what am I without my community? Just a lonely soul who is bound to be humiliated and exploited in this unforgiving world. Death is far more suitable than this ghastly life.
After many months surviving on morsels, I have eaten my fill today. There is a pint of Old Monk beside me, bought with the last of my money. The alcohol is not to get me stoned, but to make my blood thin, so that when I cut my vein, I die as soon as possible, with this mortal body feeling as less pain as possible.
I was given the name Susheel on birth, which means one with character. Ironically, I have been called the opposite thousands of times. I prefer to be called Krishna. The name is gender agnostic. So am I. I was born in the body of a man, but I am a woman. Call me a Hijra, I wear that label with honour. At least I did till my Guru, akin to my mother in this community, ostracised me.
I was fascinated by girls at a tender age. I liked to dress like them, put on make-up like them. My birth-mother found me adorable. I used to play with girls too, preferring to make tea in the tiny utensil set rather than playing outside with boys of my age. It was all well and good till I was a child, but after a certain age, it started raising some eyebrows. My father beat me bloody when I was caught applying lipstick at the age of eleven. I was sent to a boys boarding school next year, with strict instructions to my teachers to not let me meet girls. What was he thinking? This will “cure” me of being a woman? This was not a disease to cure. This was an identity, and I had to live with it. The hostel life was hellish. The boys came to know of my effeminate nature pretty soon and started bullying me. I was beaten up more than once. My clothes were torn more than once. And to whom was I to complain? The hostel warden couldn’t care less. This only made those boys bolder.
One day, I couldn’t take it any longer and ran away from the boarding school. I knew I couldn’t go back to my home, I would be sent back. I stayed in a dirt cheap dormitory till I exhausted the little money I had. I then met Anjali at a traffic signal. She was big, burly and almost masculine in her build. But she had compassion in her eyes. Her face, with the large red bindi and carefully applied kaajal, looked pleasingly feminine. She knew at a glance what I was. She took me in, offered some food, and asked me to join the community. I readily accepted.
Life with the community was simple at first. I was still young, and so was taken care of without being expected to earn. I was literate though. I studied till half of my eighth class before running away, which was more than most Hijras can boast of. I was supposed to teach the younger lot by the day, and some of the curious elder ones by the night, when they were free of their begging chores. Our Guru, Gauhar didi, asked each and every Hijra in our community to try and be literate. She herself tried to learn from me whenever she got time. She supported the activity with all the money she could spare. I even got a board and chalk and some books to teach from. I took pride in teaching, sometimes even envisioned myself teaching a whole classroom of kids in a school. But the dusty sand of the small clearing near our shabby huts, where I could teach four, or may be five of my own kind, was fulfilling in its own right.
In turn, I had to learn everything from the history of our community to things like how to dance. I came to know about the past lives of all the Hijras under Gauhar didi, how they came out, how they faced their parents and relatives, and how they came to meet Gauhar didi. Most of them were ousted from home as soon as they declared what they were. Some lucky ones had support of their family, and were still on talking terms with their siblings if not their parents. Anjali, the senior most under Gauhar didi, was the heir apparent. She was in her mid-thirties, and had travelled quite a lot in India. She used to beg in trains before, and told many anecdotes of her travels at different places. Now, she used to beg at a very busy traffic signal and earn some decent money.
It was Anjali who told me about emasculation. As soon as I was to turn sixteen, this ceremony was to take place. I was thrilled as well as scared. I would finally be accepted in the community whole-heartedly. But this meant that a part of my body will have to be cut away. Not that I needed it, but surgeries are laden with risks. Anjali assured me that the operation will be done by an adept doctor who was doing it since a decade for our community.
The day came. I was at the zenith of happiness. There was great fanfare around me. I worshipped Bahuchara maata and Ardhnaareshwara, the deities all Hijras believe in. With the blessings of my deities, I was taken to the hospital, where the operation took place. I was kept at the hospital for two days and then had to live in seclusion for forty days, eating only meagre amounts of food and medicine. My recovery was slow but steady, and the hard days of seclusion were eased knowing that I was to be whole-heartedly accepted by the ones I considered my own. In retrospect, this craving for acceptance has been my driving value. It has formed the core of my belief system.
I don’t know why a gender needs one of the only two labels that society has defined. Gender is like water, freely flowing, stagnation makes it stink and useless. Why is it that a man can’t cry and is despised as a weakling if he does? Why is it that a woman can’t experience sex as brazenly as a man and be deemed a slut? Label those who are pretty comfortable in that life of bondage. Not me. Being able to pee standing doesn’t make me a man. Being emotional and empathetic doesn’t make me a woman. I am me, and I crave to be accepted as I am.
And I was, the day of my re-birth, the forty-first day after my emasculation. I was dressed as a bride, and the whole get up was taken care of by Gauhar didi herself. My facial hair was plucked by my elder sisters. It was unbearably painful, but it looked more feminine that way. My hair, which I had allowed to grow long, was braided and decorated with glittering pins. With lipstick and face scrub and mascara and make up, I was looking beautiful in the most feminine manner. After this meticulous make-over, where I was made to feel like a bride, there was a procession, a baaraat, where I was made to feel like a bridegroom. Two of my sisters carried me on their shoulders while the whole community danced around them. They sang farces about marriage. They sang songs of Bahuchar maa. They hummed the hymns of Shiva, all this in the accompaniment of khanjari and dholak. As the lake approached, Gauhar didi urged them to be as loud as they can. I was taken into the lake as a Ganpati idol would have been. I took three dips in the water. The name Susheel was wiped off, and I was “reborn” as Krishna, daughter of Gauhar, with the divine power of taking people’s bad luck away. Euphoria, Elation, the zenith of happiness, name it whatever you want, I felt it that day.
Then came the nadir. I missed one subtle point. How did Gauhar didi pay for such a grand celebration when she had so many mouths to feed? Where did the money come from? It came from the prospect of me repaying it. I was under a mountain of debt now, and I had to earn. How does a transgender earn? We have only two professions, none of them respectable – Becoming a sex worker or becoming a beggar. I chose the former, because of my being young and decent looking, that was going to earn me far more than begging. I wanted to repay the loan as quickly as possible.
I was astonished at first why men would pay to sleep with me. Not long ago, I had the same thing between my legs as them. I personally detested sleeping with men. But entertaining them was my job and I had to do it. I earned decently at first, but after a year or two my earnings began to dwindle. I didn’t understand what I was doing wrong. It came till a point when I couldn’t save enough to pay Gauhar didi anything. She didn’t say anything at first, but she knew I needed help. I was taught the art of seduction. I was taught role-playing. I was taught everything that the male gender likes, physically as well as emotionally. A successful prostitute doesn’t depend on her looks. She banks on her ability to give pleasure. And I thrived with that learning. Krishna’s name started gaining repute in the pleasure-house, so much that when important clients (read, people who paid more) visited, I was summoned as one of the first exhibits. Outside, they chose me. Inside, I chose what to do with them. I was coming to terms with this profession then, and was well on course to finish paying up for my loan in less than a year, when it happened.
Chandra! My Mount Everest and my Hell’s Canyon! My elixir and my poison! Till this very moment I don’t know how I feel about him. Should I worship him like a God or should I banish him from my thoughts forever? Chandra! My Downfall! The very reason I have this blade ready to slit my wrist.
One day at the pleasure-house, he came with a few friends. He might have had a few drinks, but not in excess. He, in his late twenties then, had a tidy beard and neatly parted hair. He wore round thick golden framed glasses that made him look older than he was. He usually wore an un-ironed shirt and corduroys, which had been out of fashion for a decade. It was his first visit to a pleasure house, and his friends were paying for him. First visits were my speciality. He was my guest that night. And on the way to my room I was already making plans of what to do with him. But it was not to be.
As soon as we were in my room, and I tried to undress him, he stopped me with a firm hand. “Can we just talk?” he asked. This was new. May be he was too nervous and I needed to get over his nerves. We started talking. And talking is what we did, the whole night. We talked about his life. Unmarried guy, more interested in science than sex, not a semblance of love life, still a virgin, brought here by his friends just to get him to start his sex life. But he was least interested in carnal pleasures. Instead, he asked about me. Why would he be interested in my past life? We transgenders have a life of struggle, nothing worth romanticizing. But I started telling him everything. There was no reason to lie or keep secrets. We were frank with each other. We laughed on the follies and foibles of each other. That night, I experienced a different kind of nakedness, that of the mind. That night I made a friend. One I never expected to meet again.
But we met. He came alone this time and specifically asked for me. It was not new for my clients to ask for me again. I had a few regulars – but not Chandra. He gracefully paid up front to the pimp. I didn’t want the money. But he didn’t want suspicious eyes. We talked again, right till dawn, in full sobriety. An anomaly in my schedule was this, an anomaly I liked having. This became fairly regular. He paid every time. We started meeting outside too now. I insisted on paying for drinks or coffee when we met out. He bought me decent western clothes. Whenever people looked scornfully at us, he gave a menacing stare back at them. Wherever people would prohibit me from going, or try to extricate me out of some place, he stood brave, argued and even fought once. He knew how I loved to be normal, my core need to be accepted by people, and he valued that. I was falling for him without realization. I kept my love hidden, thinking ‘Who would love a Hijra?’
One day, he asked me to take me to his home. I readily accepted. He lived alone, and I wanted to see the place. He called it a crammed apartment, but it was thrice as big as my room in the pleasure-house! He had a double bed! And a refrigerator, all his own! I loved the house. And I saw the smirk in his face. He handed over a spare key to me. He trusted me that much. All the love I had hoarded for him broke the dam that day. We slept together for the first time, then and there. He was mine and I was his. He confessed his love for me too. That was it. I got all I had needed. I resolved I won’t make love to anyone else ever again.
I told Gauhar didi all about this back home. I asked her that I won’t be able to continue my job as a sex worker. Gauhar didi accepted that on condition that her loan be paid in full. I had meagre savings. I couldn’t have asked Chandra to repay it for me. I had to find a job, a job that a Hijra can do. I promised Gauhar didi I would pay the loan in 3 months. I called Chandra, hoping he might help me find a job. He didn’t pick up. I called him again and again. He didn’t pick up. I was worried sick! Where had he gone? I hurried to his house as fast as I can. I barged in. The house was empty. He had packed and left. Where? I didn’t know. I was devastated. Just last night, we were together in embrace here! In this very house! Where had he gone? I had no way of knowing. I tried to reach his phone again. It was still ringing. His phone was right there on the bedside table. I checked his phone for some hints of his wherebouts, nothing, empty. Reset to Factory settings. No contacts. I knew none of his friends, barring one who came with him to the pleasure-house. I asked the pimp to keep a lookout. I went to the company he worked for. They said he had resigned a week ago. They had no clue of his whereabouts. Chandra! Where had he gone? All my hopes rested on seeing the friend at the pleasure house again.
But I couldn’t wait for that to happen. I had a loan to repay, and for that I had to earn, and not at the pleasure house. This body was Chandra’s and only his. I couldn’t beg too. There was no way I could earn enough to repay my loan just by begging. I started to search for jobs with the qualification I had. I could be a maid, and do chores of 5-6 houses daily. Or maybe I could be a watchman. I had no problem staying up all night and in the event of a fight, I was strong enough to break some bones. I could even work at a construction site. That job paid decently last I heard. I started asking around for jobs, and the replies I got were horrific. “We do not hire people of the third sex.” “People like you should be content to beg on the streets.” “Go and sleep with a rich guy if you want to earn money.” If I insisted, I was humiliated more. I was kicked out of construction sites too. Finally, I got a job as a maid and caretaker for an old couple. I had to leave that on the third day, because of sexual advances made by the old man. As I was leaving, I heard him swear under his breath, “Self-respect doesn’t befit your community, you Hijra!” I was gutted. If only Chandra were here! This old man would’ve heard an earful!
I gave up and went to Gauhar didi. I told her what happened. I cried inconsolably in her lap. Gauhar didi couldn’t see my plight. She and Anjali tried to reason with me. They wanted me to move on, to join the pleasure house again, and to forget Chandra. I told them I couldn’t. I was sold, by mind, body and soul. I was his now. Gauhar Didi twisted my ear, looked me in my eye with a furious gaze, and said, “Listen, you whore! I have raised you. You will do what I tell you, or be left on the streets to fend for yourself. Go to the pleasure house now, else you are exiled. Don’t ever come back to us. We are dead to you!”
That’s how I ended up here on the footpath, besides the bottle of Old Monk, which is almost empty now. So ends the story of my life.
Yes, I am a self-respecting Hijra, I have never been accepted in the society and never will. I refrain from begging. I abhor selling my body. And there is no other work that the society deems fit for me. I am more fortunate than most though, that I found love, firstly from Gauhar didi and my sisters, then from Chandra. Chandra! Wherever you are, I hope you are safe and smiling!
