For my Gender and Work class, we had to pick a topic related to gender and work for our research project. I chose hijras, the third sex from South Asia. I focused more closely on the hijras of Bangladesh and wrote a short story on it.
Since it relates to to Bangladesh culture, I'm sharing it here:
When Prachi left her basti[1] in the morning, her intention was to visit Shobha, her younger sister, in Gazipur. It was with extraordinary pride that Prachi had informed her friends in the basti that her sister had received a full governmental scholarship to attend the Gazipur College of Dhaka. Such scholarships were not at all common in Bangladesh, especially for poor students with no connections to the government or people of high status. Not only did Shobha’s scholarship promise her a successful future, but it also meant that she would now be living in a dormitory away from home. For Prachi, this meant she now had the opportunity to see her precious sister for the first time in six years, ever since she decided to leave her family. Upon that decision, their father had forbidden Prachi from ever returning and had even beaten her when she tried to visit her mother and Shobha. For six years, their only means of communication was through secret letters.
When she left her room and entered the scorching midday heat, the lively noises and smells of Dhaka met her. The incessant sounds of buses and cars honking, tempos[2] tooting, rickshaw bells ringing, and humans shouting and conversing buzzed in her ears while the hot air breathed upon her skin as she walked to the local bus stop. She walked with a jaunty gait that she had developed over the years, swinging her hips from side to side, twirling her sari’s aachal[3], and singing to herself just loud enough for passersby to hear. She sang in unrestricted joy to see her sister. Her mere presence turned heads and elicited whispers and the street shopkeepers eyed her warily as she neared their stalls as she passed them.
She dressed in the traditional sari and had the long hair typical of Bangladeshi women, and although her mannerisms were hyper-feminine, her features were masculine. Her plantain green sari with yellow printed flowers was bright and colorful. She did not wear it modestly as expected of respectable women when out in the streets; instead of the achal covering her midriff it displayed the curves of her waist sensually. Heavy colorful eye shadow decorated her eyelids matching the blushing red apples of her cheeks and her bold bright lips. With her hip jutting out to one side, she continued her tune, defiantly meeting each gaze that passed her over so openly that it made the other party squirm from her stare. Sometimes she puckered her lips out to a passing man or exclaimed loudly, “Ya Allah”[4] and batted herself with her hand in a display of the hot weather or sighed loudly complaining to no one in particular about it. Her actions were exaggerated—in part for own amusement, but mainly to attract attention.
***
When Prachi was born, the midwife that delivered her did not know how to declare her gender. “Ki bolbu, babhi?” she had said to her mother. What do I say? She could not determine Prachi’s sex because of her genitals’ ambiguity. “It’s a boy,” the midwife finally surmised after much scrutiny, “it looks most like a male. Allah has given you a son.”
***
Past the passing rickshaws, Prachi watched the far distance to catch sight of a tempo that could take her to Gazipur; a two hour journey that would normally take 45 minutes if it were not for the distinctive congested traffic of Dhaka. As a yellow tarp-roofed tempo spurted towards her line of vision and stopped in the midst of the traffic, she sashayed her way to the driver.
“Bhai, jaga deben?” Will you give me a spot?
Avoiding her gaze, the driver muttered, “You can stand on the edge, if you’re willing. There are no more seats left inside.”
She exclaimed her thanks noisily and confidently stepped onto the back edge of the tempo and took hold of the roof, smirking at the evident discomfort of the other passengers. There was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere; a mother held her child closer and tugged her veil to hide her face from Prachi and everyone seemed to lean away from her. Everyone purposefully avoided meeting her eyes. Though she had gotten accustomed to such responses, the hurt that accompanied them had yet to recede. She swallowed it, instead channeling that pain into her bold and raucous behavior. “How is everyone, today, eh?” She sang out, bobbing her head from side to side, grinning ear to ear. The averted eyes and frozen body language remained the same and they ignored her. She twisted her mouth to one side and sniffed haughtily, expressing that she too rejected them as they rejected her. She turned her head to look out of the tempo and noticed a little boy. She automatically whistled at him and commented on his young beauty. “Look at your robust round face; it’s full of life and spirit. Come close to me! You would look beautiful in a sari!” The boy in the grocery stall shifted uncomfortably and checked his two sides to see if she was speaking to someone else.
She called out again, “Yes, I’m talking to you, sweetie. Give a kiss, please?” She puckered her lips imitating kisses and tittered in between the mock kisses.
“Don’t harass the child.” A man seated inside the tempo resentfully spoke to her, visibly annoyed by her remarks to the child.
Prachi became delighted from the man’s acknowledgement and flirtatiously touched his shoulder, giggling, “Why shouldn’t I? Should I do it to you instead?” Then she winked. More than before, the silence in the tempo resounded upon the delivery of her words.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” he said coldly, looking straight ahead rather than at Prachi. She giggled again, deriving pleasure from his uneasy mannerisms. She enjoyed his irritation and decided to test his limits.
“What if I do?” She stared at him, a mischievous smile spreading across her face, unmindful of what she was getting herself into. She was not thinking about repercussions—she had nothing to lose. She had no reputation to think about in society and she had lost the support of her family. The only people she had in her life were her friends at the basti, friends that were all like her, ones that faced the same types of discrimination and ostracism. The man remained silent and she could see him resisting her attempts to anger him. She nudged him again, knowing that he found her touch repulsive and shameful.
He instantaneously flinched and his voice began to raise, “Don’t touch me, bitch.”
The tempo driver at this point noticed the contention between Prachi and the man and warned them, “Ey! Kisu shuru korbi na.” Don’t start anything.
“Bhai, I’m not doing anything. I just want to be friendly, but I don’t think this sexy gentleman here likes that. Maybe he wants more.” She laughed and grazed her fingers across his cheek.
“EY KUTHA, AR EKBAR KOR AR DEKH KI HOBE!” Bitch, do it one more time and see what happens.
In retaliation, she turned and attempted to sit on his lap, “I know you want it, men like you want us, but hide it in when out in the open!”
In a matter of seconds, the man violently shoved Prachi off his lap and she lurched forward towards the woman who immediately clutched her child and turned her gaze down, ignoring the imminent fight. Prachi twisted around to face the man and slapped him at full force. He held on to the bars of the tempo to steady himself and kicked her repeatedly, aiming to kick her out of the vehicle. She countered his attacks and each time she almost fell off the tempo she recovered, holding on to the roof for balance. The man continued the brawl by grabbing her by the hair and kicking her once more as Prachi clawed his face and threw punches. Her achaal had already fallen off her shoulder and her masculine body became visible to the spectators now gathered around the tempo. No one offered to help extricate the two even when blood became a part of the scene; nevertheless, they watched the fight unfolding. The man won at the end, as Prachi fell out of the tempo with his final kick, and, as if on cue, traffic began moving again and the tempo with it. The last words to her were “Spawn of swine[5], its whores like you that ruin society; die,” followed by a glob of spit targeted at her. Hot angry tears stung her wounds and she wiped the blood off her mouth with the back of her hand. She said nothing.
Prachi’s birth name was Shalom. She was born as the first son of Rajul Hassan and Meena Hassan, two poor villagers who lived in an overcrowded village in the outskirts of Dhaka. Rajul Hassan was a farm laborer and the news of a son comforted his worn out heart. A son meant an extra hand outside of the home, a companion for him. But Shalom did not turn out to be the son Hassan desired. Even as Shalom grew older, he continued to hide behind his mother’s aachal. He was deplorable in masculine tasks that required strength and he had little desire to leave his mother’s side to work alongside men outside of the home. The heavy work required of men in the fields took a toll on him and he favored women’s chores. He was physically unable to keep up with the men as boys his age could and he had overt feminine tendencies. To the disappointment of his father, he dropped out in his sixth year of school, completing only his primary education. He cried about the distress he felt among boys who teased him for not playing football[6] with them, when instead he enjoyed playing with girls. Eventually, both groups excluded him from their games altogether. These predicaments did not end after leaving school, but carried on through his neighbors and relatives. People questioned his lack of masculinity and called him a woman trapped in a man’s body, constantly jabbing him with sexual jokes. Once, a relative jokingly attempted to see his genitals by pulling down his pants, something Shalom’s mother hastily ended. These incidents left irreparable scars on Shalom’s mind as he struggled to please those around him. He searched for acceptance, but found none except in his mother and his younger sister, Shobha. His confusion with himself consistently made him miserable as he was never able to express himself freely without judgment. After years of disapproval, Rajul Hassan decided to tolerate his son only if he remained out of sight and did not display peculiar behavior in the open. Shalom was able to live in peaceful conditions in the company of his beloved mother and sister for several months before an accident left his father incapacitated.
As the second male of the household, Shalom was expected to step up into his father’s position as the breadwinner. While Rajul Hassan recuperated at home, Shalom tentatively ventured outside of Dhaka in search of work. After some difficulty, he secured a job as a rickshaw driver, under the employment of a rickshaw dealer, and worked all day and some nights. He encountered all odd sorts of people working as a rickshaw puller, but there was one group that held his attention. The group consisted of women with unnaturally masculine features heavily made up in cosmetics and bright clothing. They were raucous and bold, but seemed joyous amongst themselves. One time he witnessed them harassing a garments shopkeeper to the point that he gave away clothing to get them to leave.[7] Shalom couldn’t explain his fascination with them; he wondered about who they were and why they did not feel shame in their public behavior. Eventually he asked a customer about them as he took him to his destination.
“Bhai[8], these masculine females…who are they?”
“You’ve never seen a hijra before? Allah’s creation, neither man nor female.”
Neither man nor female. Those words replayed in Shalom’s head at all times and his curiosity was ignited—he wanted to know more. For the first time in his life, Shalom felt like he might belong somewhere. He just wasn’t sure if he liked it.
***
“I know you’re like us,” Nandini said, “I see it. I’m never wrong in recognizing another hijra.” Shalom met Nandini, an elderly hijra, in the bazaar. He watched CNGs[9] and other vehicles reject her each time she approached one, before he dragged his rickshaw to her and offered to give her a ride. After they had arrived at the hijra basti that was her home, she paid him heavily, and was now appraising him. Shalom fidgeted uncomfortably, staring at his feet, not knowing what to say. When a long pause went by, he said, “How can I know?”
“You already know. You’re afraid, it’s etched all over your face and I see it in the way you look at me. You’re afraid of being ostracized by people the way we are, but you’ve already experienced it, haven’t you? The difference is that with us, you’ll have friends and a community that will accept you. You’ll be happier with us, you’ll be comfortable in your skin. No more pretense being a man.”
Moved by her words, Shalom felt his throat closing as he held back tears.
That night, Shalom rode his rented rickshaw back the owner’s warehouse. When he arrived, the streets were sparse with people, and stores were closing for the night. He entered the warehouse and headed straight for the owner’s office, but seeing it empty, he began searching for the warehouse keeper.
“Oi, ki koreesh?” What are you doing? A voice boomed from behind him and Shalom saw that it was the new warehouse security guard.
“I’m returning the rickshaw,” he replied. The guard eyed him up and down and Shalom felt goose bumps rise in the back of his neck.
“I’ve heard about you, the effeminate boy. You hijra?” The guard spoke roughly, but his underlying tone suggested interest.
Shalom trembled and shook his head, “Na, bhai,” No, brother.
“Really? Show me and I’ll believe you,” the guard took a step forward and Shalom darted to the back exit of the warehouse and ran. He knew of a bus stop nearby and did not stop until he reached it. He purchased the earliest bus ticket to his village when he arrived. He craved nothing more than the comfort of his mother’s lap.
***
The morning he arrived in his village, his mother and sister met him with excitement and surprise. Even his father seemed pleased to see him—after all, Shalom was finally fulfilling his role as the only son of the family. The positive welcome did not last long. Shalom’s curiosity about the hijra burned inside of him and he still wondered whether or not he belonged with them. He wanted to know what it felt like to be one of them.
Shalom had watched Shobha apply makeup time and time again. So much that when he picked up her kajal[10] the motions of applying it came naturally. He darkened his eyes from the top, the cheap pencil producing ragged lines across his eyelids. He grimaced at the sight of the mess he made and rubbed it off, opting to merely apply it to his waterline. He eyed the red lipstick as he rubbed heavy rouge on his dark skin. Shalom picked up the lipstick and applied the creamy red over his lips. He could taste the lipstick in his mouth. Rubbing his lips together, the color tinted his lips evenly and he puckered them in the mirror. He didn’t know how long he had been watching himself in the mirror, holding back giddy smiles, before he heard the sound of the door’s latch opening. He turned and met Shobha’s shocked face. She stared at him for seconds before speaking.
“Bhaiyya… what’s happening?” she asked, her voice rising unintentionally. Shalom panicked and rushed to lock the door to secure their privacy.
His face welled with tears and he quivered as he searched for words, “Shobha, please, Shobha, listen.”
She repeated, “What’s happening?” followed with a succession of questions, “why are you wearing lipstick? Why do you have kajal on? What are you doing?”
He fell to the floor and wiped the makeup off as much as he could while hushing her, “Shobha please, quiet…someone will hear, please quiet…” The room fell silent filled only with Shalom’s heaving sobs. After some time, Shobha kneeled beside him, her soft hand light resting light upon his back.
“Ma Baba-ke bole na,” Don’t tell mom and dad.
But he did tell them. When he asked, "What do you know about hijras?” His father froze and his mother seemed to go into a panic, “Why, Shalom? What do you know about them? Why are you asking?”
Shobha fumbled to cover up his question, but to no avail.
Shalom continued, “I met some, in Dhaka. One hijra said I’m one of them.”
“Shalom, silence. You’re speaking nonsense!” His father bellowed.
He remained quiet for a bit before answering his father, “Baba[11], I think they were right.” “Shalom, be quiet,” his mother warned. It did not matter anymore if Shalom remained quiet or not, the damage was done. Wordlessly, Shalom’s father rose, and pulled him up from the ground by the ear. He slapped him on both cheeks and asked him if he thought he was hijra. His head hung, he nodded slowly, tears dripping down his nose. Rajul Hassan wasted no time in gathering his son’s belongings and throwing them outside. He proceeded to forbid his wife and daughter from ever meeting him or letting him return to their house, much less ever mention his name again. “I have no son,” Rajul decreed, “he is dead to me. He died in Dhaka.”
***
Shalom returned to Nandini’s basti. The hijra community was as accepting as Nandini had described it to be, and they celebrated his advent through song and dance. Since Shalom was born a hermaphrodite, his genitals were in between that of a male’s and a female’s. Unlike some hijras who choose to undergo the emasculation process[12], Shalom chose to keep his body as it was. The rest of the initiation process was the same—he changed his name to Prachi, a female name, and took on feminine pronouns. She also became Nandini’s chela[13]and Nandini her guru. This meant that she would live with Nandini in her house in the basti and remain underneath her care. Prachi was taught the ways of the hijra and quickly learned how to fend for herself in a society that shunned her kind. The lack of employment opportunities available was unsurprising to Prachi, but it did not make the financial situation any easier. She participated in the hijragiri practices of badhai and cholla or birit manga[14] with the hijra community, but such practices were not as widespread as before, and it barely raked in adequate profit.
“There was a time where a hijra had more respect in society,” Nandini informed Prachi
“Did you know hijras like us during the Mughal period had high places in court? Everything changed with British colonization.” Nandini had the highest amount of education among all the hijras in the basti. No one knew why; it was one of her many mysterious elements. On most days, Prachi would sit beside Nandini, transfixed by her knowledge of world news and personal stories. Nandini had an avid interest in politics and current events and loved to tell stories to boot. Prachi was one of the very few hijras that enjoyed hearing them.
“Hijragiri is not the same anymore as it was in my days. You can’t make ends meet with the meager amounts people give. No one wants us as entertainment anymore.”
“Why don’t they?” Prachi asked.
“Why should they? They have technology and the internet for free entertainment. We can’t even demand money from dukhandaars[15]anymore. The markets have tougher security, we’re not allowed past the fancy new malls now. If we try, the police beat us.”
Nandini was firmly against sex work as she believed in a hijra’s asexuality, “Allah created us without a sexual desire. That sexual energy translates into our spiritual nature. We have the power to curse or bless others...” Not all the hijras shared that same view. Many of the hijras in the basti engaged in sex work, especially on days where cholla or badhai work went very badly. It was rumored that one of the hijras had contracted AIDs from a client, but she did not know which. She will probably die faster because of the lack of medical treatments available to her. As hijra she has no rights to medical health care. It was those kind of issues that riled Nandini. Nandini belonged to an NGO that worked to improve hijra conditions and establish their privileges. She always felt very strongly about the lack of hijra rights. She would always say, “Our country is the most behind on this subcontinent!” She would talk about the improving statuses of hijras in India and Pakistan, at least comparably to that of Bangladesh’s. “There are hijra politicians in India! Did you know that, Prachi?” From Nandini’s understanding, there could be no social change or advancement for hijras without national recognition. Hijras were not counted in the country’s population census because they did not have a gender category to identify them. “We’re not recognized as citizens of Bangladesh, though we were born here and will most likely die here.” Until change came from the government, hijras would continue eking out their living through the dying traditional work of hijragiri or sex work. Almost no employer wanted to hire them because of the stigma they face in society. Some even considered them disabled peoples, unable to work as any other normal person.
***
Gazipur College of Dhaka overlooked a lake and rested on rural land. Outside the gates there was a bazaar with an abundant vegetable and fish market. The scene was vibrant and pulsed with villagers and students mingling among each other. Prachi surreptitiously walked through the bustle with her head ducked and covered with a veil. She didn’t want to draw negative attention towards her sister; it was one thing for her to be insulted, but another for her precious Shobha. She traveled the remainder of his journey by rickshaw and foot. She slipped past the guards of the college gate and gained entry into the girls’ dormitory that her sister resided in. In her last letter, she had disclosed a description of her building and her room number.
When she found Shobha’s room, she rapped on the door and waited, her heart beating in her ears from excitement. The door opened to reveal Shobha, six year older, and Prachi dropped her veil. Shobha burst into tears and they both embraced, crying in each other’s arms. Upon the release of their embrace, Shobha ushered Prachi into her room and grinned. She was emanating with happiness. She grabbed the Daily Amardesh newspaper lying on her desk and showed Prachi the front page. “Dekho.” Look. It read:
“Government recognizes the third sex.”
[1] Bangla: Community, slums.
[2] Form of ground transportation likened to that of a small cattle vehicle.
[5] Very offensive insult in Bengali
[7] Because they were harming his business and bringing bad attention
[8] Bengalis use generic familial terms to address strangers
[9] Type of ground transportation in Bangladesh. Functions as a taxi.
[12] Hijra emasculation process means ceremoniously cutting off the penis and bleeding out the person being initiated in order to spiritually bring them closer to their ambiguous gender. Hossain, Adnan. "Beyond Emasculation: Being Muslim and Becoming Hijra in South Asia." Asian Studies Review 36 (December 2012): 495-513.
[13] Disciples of the hijra guru. "Living on the Extreme Margin: Social Exclusion of the Transgender Population (Hijra) in Bangladesh." Journal of Health, Population and Nutrition 27, no. 4 (August 16, 2009): 441-51. doi:10.3329/jhpn.v27i4.3388.
[14] Badhai: blessing a newborn child through singing and dancing. Cholla/birit manga: asking/demanding for alms from marketplace or other places. Stewart, Chuck. "Bangladesh." In The Greenwood Encyclopedia of LGBT Issues Worldwide, 333-46. Santa Barbara, CA: Greenwood Press, 2010.
Gazipur, Bangladesh. 2013. |
|
“Government recognizes the third sex.”
