by Anosh Irani
That afternoon, she collected the parcel on her way.
“I live here,” said Madhu, pointing to Hijra House as they passed by it. “All my sisters live in that building.”
Next to the public toilet, Bulbul was playing carrom with a young chap, a budding gangster. She kept giggling after every shot she made, holding her mouth, mocking herself for how inept she was at the game.
They passed the blue mosque and then reached Two Tanks, where the sound of steel clashing into steel reminded Madhu of the time she used to work in Gaandu Bageecha—the Anal Gardens. When she saw the gardens a few minutes later—an abandoned ground just opposite the scrap houses, an arid place with cement blocks lying around—she held the parcel’s hand tight; a reflex when remembering the unpleasant. After Madhu had defied her gurumai and stopped sex work, after lifting her sari and flashing the bride’s mother, after begging work made her slip into an even deeper depression, she had slid even lower and come to Gaandu Bageecha to regain some of her lost glory. Her beauty no longer visible, her false sense of power gone, she would smoke a chillum near the small statue of Ganesh outside the gardens. Then, sufficiently numb, she would wander through the gardens in search of clients.
In the mornings, the ground was used for minor political gatherings. Activists practised speeches on people who would never vote. Starting at about five, the gamblers arrived to play cards until dusk. After that, it was Madhu’s turn. She would stand against the far wall of the gardens in the devil dark with a small flashlight and snap it on and off three times in quick succession. That was her signal. She then clapped three times, the shrill hijra clap, to warn people. She did not want them coming to her thinking she was a woman.
Only the junkies came. Sometimes Madhu did not even get paid. Sometimes she got roughed up by young men who called her a freak. But on other nights, she’d get a man who was honest enough to pay for his relief. She no longer brought pleasure to anyone—not for a moment did she fool herself. She brought the men some relief, that was all. She was slightly better than a bowel movement.
She did not use condoms because the men did not want to. If she insisted on condoms, they would go to someone else. Sometimes the junkies were so clouded that she would have to go through their pockets at the end of the session to collect her payment. She never cheated them. If anything, she felt pity for them and gave them a discount while they were sleeping. She was so lonely by then that she’d lay down next to them after her lovemaking—she liked to call it that—while they were unconscious and hold their bodies close to hers.
This was when Gajja had yanked himself out of her life for a while because Madhu had pushed him away. She felt she was no longer worth looking at. So after spending the day begging at Bombay Central, she’d go to the gardens and hug anything male, anything with a beating heart. Some of the men were gentle in their sleep. They were like children. Some cried in their slumber, making random sounds of ache and home that ricocheted against her breast. When the men made those sounds, Madhu sat up against the wall, placed their heads in her lap, stroked their hair, and studied their faces in the stingy glow that spilled from an old street light. Some had so many lines in their faces; others had a few teeth missing. She started connecting with them as they slept. Awake, they were of no use to her, but asleep, they were allowing her to mother them. It gave her the strength to go begging the next day.
She’d never had any ambitions to be a mother and adopt children the way some hijras had. But now she discovered that she had quietly harboured this hope, keeping it buried inside her because it was one more thing that would be laughed at. She believed that sometimes life gave you a lesser version of a dream, and it was up to you to take it. So she took it in her arms, and she cradled those junkies as if they were her own flesh and blood. Even though some of them had abused her while they were inside her, once they passed out, all that remained was her caress and their breathing.
She spoke to them while they slept, told them things she had only told Bulbul, about how her father used to hide her from the neighbours. Whenever someone from the building would stop to chat and Madhu would answer in his feminine voice, his father would finish Madhu’s sentence and send him away. When Madhu was a boy, he’d had a girl’s voice, but now that she was a hijra, she had the voice of a man. She just didn’t get the joke—or maybe she did, and so did her junkie children. But unlike her father, they never passed judgment; they never wanted her to become invisible. Gaandu Bageecha may have been arid, more desert than garden, but it gave her some shade, cooled her down when the hot sulphur of failure was eating her bones. It was during those nights, when she kept her palm on the foreheads of her little junkies, that she felt for the first time in her life that she had the power to bless. She had dropped her beauty, renounced it the way a snake lets go of its skin, and now in the role of mother, the force of Bahuchara Mata was flowing through her.
She did not do any hocus-pocus or chant mantras. She simply thought about the story of the young Mata traversing a jungle in Gujarat and being pounced upon by a band of thieves. To protect her dignity, the Mata had sliced off her breast and placed it as an offering before the thieves. This act of mutilation had resonated with the hijras over the centuries. By mutilating herself, she was honouring herself. The Mata had sacrificed her womanhood in order to preserve it, just as the hijras let go of the male in them to become channels for the Mata. But what had the Mata been trying to say in that forest? What was the young Mata discovering for herself? That she was a woman, even without her breasts. As long as her soul was intact, her body could be massacred ten times over. So Madhu, against a wall in Gaandu Bageecha, with a sweet junkie in her lap, moved beyond self-mutilation into compassion. The force of the Mata was gentle and eternal and made no distinction between junkie, truckie, servant, or labourer. Birth had not made Madhu who she was now. The lack of touch had. So she would give to her little junkies what had been denied her, and when she placed her hand on their heads, she felt something swell inside her. It was not love, because love was something slippery—it could be caught but then it slid away. What she felt, and imparted, could not be caught to begin with. Each night, after a quick fuck, she would put her children to sleep and walk back home to Hijra Gulli. She was one of the rare few who had discovered why the arid ground in Gaandu Bageecha was called a garden.
Now, as she walked alongside the parcel in the daylight, Madhu found it strange to be staring at the same ground. It was occupied only by a small boy trying to fly a kite. He had no string, but he was holding the kite by its ears and trying to send it up. Seeing the kite go limp, he picked it up, and ran with it. Then he stopped abruptly and looked around, not knowing what to do with so much space.
By the time Madhu and the parcel got to Pila Haus, they were both thirsty. Madhu ordered a watermelon juice for both of them outside Pestonji Building. The parcel would need strength for what was about to happen.
Madhu surveyed the area. Pila Haus, like Kamathipura, had become a version of its former self. Originally called “Play House” because of the high society plays that had once been performed here, it was now a hub for B-grade films and two Chinese dentists, Dr. Wang and Dr. Tang. There was an Afghan dentist as well, with a fish tank in his window that contained three fish named after his three wives; and Dr. Sharma, who was new and had a miniature Indian flag embedded into a denture as a window display. It was Dr. Sharma who had refused to treat Madhu. Dr. Wang had taken a look at her teeth instead and told her that in China, during his great grandfather’s time, eunuchs were respected and worked with the royal family.
Today, Madhu was not here for her teeth. She found the woman she was looking for. Deeba was seated cross-legged in her sari, looking more like a fisherwoman than a tattoo artist. Laid out before her were designs sketched out on white chart paper covered in transparent plastic: demons, rats, Krishna, a light bulb, and a black butterfly. For years these were the images she’d engrave on the arms and necks of her customers. She took requests, de
pending on her mood, but she would never copy a design from somewhere else.
“Trying to run away last night was wrong,” said Madhu to the parcel. “Do you understand?”
The parcel nodded her head and looked away from Madhu, licking the line of watermelon juice from her lips.
“If you do wrong things, there are always consequences.”
This time, the parcel did not nod. She looked straight at Madhu, but there was no insolence in her look at all. She seemed to be making some sort of plea. Madhu’s mention of consequences had made her realize that retribution was on the way, and it made even the smallest dash of bravery ooze out of her.
“If you make any sounds, if you do any drama, if you attract any attention, you will really suffer. That man who attacked you, I will not protect you from him again. So make sure you go through this well, and if it pains you, remember that the pain has come because you tried to escape.”
The parcel looked around nervously, unsure of what her punishment might be.
Madhu led her to Deeba. “How are you?” she asked.
“It’s slow today,” said Deeba. “How is Bulbul? Did her man come back?”
Madhu smiled. Of course he did not come back. He never would. Bulbul had his name inscribed on her back, thinking it would draw him back. She just looked like a package that had been rubber-stamped. Fate sealed.
“I have a customer for you,” said Madhu, indicating the parcel.
“Want a butterfly for her?” asked Deeba.
“No.” Madhu did like the butterfly. One wing was longer than the other, as though it had realized something and was reaching for it.
“Why do you have rats?” asked Madhu. “Who would want a rat tattoo?”
Deeba showed Madhu the outside of her ankle. A snarling black rat with spiky teeth was tattooed there.
“When I first came to Bombay, I used to sleep on the road. A rat bit me so badly, I almost died. To cover the mark, I made a rat. Customers like the story when I tell them, and then they want it too.”
“Tell Deeba your name,” Madhu said to the parcel.
“Jhanvi,” the parcel replied. Madhu nodded. This time she had not made a mistake.
“That’s what I want. Write her name on her forearm, so she never forgets it.”
Deeba patted the ground next to her. The parcel looked at Madhu with new understanding, her eyes even more pleading. If that look could work, Madhu would have been jelly ages ago. Deeba inserted brand new batteries into her clunky apparatus; it had a dull needle at one end.
“I sterilize it each morning on the chaiwala’s stove,” she said to the parcel. “So don’t worry.”
The needle whirred like an angry mosquito. Whirring and buzzing, it spiralled its way into the parcel’s skin, reminding her never to run, that even if she ran, she would never manage to escape because her name was now stamped on her arm for her and all the world to see. It was the only passport she would ever get. This name might not have that much power now, but in time it would gather so much weight, her right arm would be heavier than the left.
Madhu held the arm down and steadied the parcel. The whirring continued, the blood dripped, and no one cared. Only the DVD seller glanced their way, through the curtain of horror films that dangled on strings from the roof of his shop. By the time the tattoo was done, the parcel’s skin was red and raw. Madhu was reminded of the white bull the parcel had tried to soothe.
Now the parcel had whip marks of her own.
—
The two of them waited for Gajja outside Roshan Talkies. The cinema was showing an Ajay Devgan movie called Gundaraj. A man was standing in the lobby with a switch in his hand, which he pressed every few seconds. The resultant ring of the bell reminded everyone that it was show time.
“Balcony! Balcony! Balcony!” he announced.
Madhu bought the parcel boiled eggs from the vendor outside the theatre and hoped that the munching would distract her from the pain. Her mobile rang: Gajja was already in the lobby and wanted her to hurry up. When they arrived, Madhu could see that Gajja was surprised.
“This is Jhanvi,” Madhu said. “Jhanvi, this is my friend Gajja. Nice name, no? If you add an n in the middle, it gets even better,” she said with a wink.
Jhanvi stared at Gajja’s face but said nothing. Neither did Gajja.
By the time they got to their seats, the theatre was full. For a weekday afternoon, Ajay Devgan had pulled in an impressive crowd. Large fans blew air in Madhu’s face. She opened herself to the fans and closed her eyes.
“I wanted to talk to you alone,” said Gajja.
“So talk,” said Madhu.
Moments went by and she heard nothing except the squeaking of Gajja’s chair as he adjusted himself. She opened her eyes.
“Tell me…,” she said.
“I have to go back to my village,” he said. “The Parsi doctor I work for is retiring. The new one hates me. He wants to get his own people in.”
“So get another job…”
“I’m done with Bombay.”
We are not done with Bombay until Bombay is done with us, thought Madhu.
“I want to watch the movie,” she said instead.
She did not want to think about Gajja leaving. He was not her lover anymore, but he was the only man in her life. Gajja and gurumai were her two gods. One was kind; the other was confusing in her kindness.
“I want you to come with me,” he said.
Gajja had been her first. She had been a virgin until he made Madhu his, and Madhu could not have asked for a better man. That much gurumai had allowed her. She could pick the man who would make her a woman. For two years after her castration, gurumai had nurtured her, fed her. Madhu did not have to do a thing. Every month she was stripped and made to stand in front of a mirror. She and gurumai felt utter glee when her hips grew, and her breasts showed themselves, and her hairless body glowed with youthful pride. She could urinate properly and there were hardly any signs of scarring. Gurumai was the perfect midwife.
If only Madhu’s mother could see her. Madhu had made herself into a beautiful girl and could not be mistaken for a boy. A reversal had taken place, and she fantasized that she would be accepted by her parents now. That’s how stupid she had been. Whenever she mentioned this to Bulbul, Bulbul would nod her head in encouragement, but she was the most transparent person in the world and Madhu could see her doubt. One day, Madhu told Bulbul that she wanted to go home to see her mother. Would Bulbul accompany her?
“Why do you want to go home?” Bulbul asked.
“I…What if they came looking for me but couldn’t find me? I’m their child. They must be worried about me. It’s been two years.”
“Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“You don’t understand. Maybe they went to the police and reported me missing but the police did nothing.”
“We may be hard to find, but…”
“I’m a girl now. I’m…Just look at me…You said I’m pretty. Am I not pretty? Were you lying to me? Tell me the truth.”
“You’re pretty, Madhu. You’re very pretty.”
“Then come with me. I just want them to know I’m alive.”
“They know.”
With quivering lip, Bulbul told Madhu that her mother had already spoken to gurumai. She had tracked Madhu down. She had not rested day or night; she had scoured the streets for gurumai with venom even snakes would die from. She had gone to the police and reported her son missing, but the cops were looking for a boy in a school uniform, not a girl in a sari. Madhu’s family was not rich—they had no donations to make—so even though Madhu was on the missing list, and the police could have found him if they really wanted to, his case was treated like a missing shoe or key.
Eventually her mother had come to Hijra Gulli. Gurumai had not denied that Madhu was here. “You can call the police,” gurumai said. “But it has already been done.”
“What has been done?”
“She is one of us now.”
Bulbul said that when Madhu’s mother heard that, she went into a trance. She sat in front of gurumai in total silence. Neither one spoke. Each took in the other’s presence.
Over the years, Madhu had made herself believe that information had been exchanged during that silence, about her, from one mother to the next. My son likes sugar on his chapatis. My son is an Amitabh Bachchan fan. My son likes to be held tight and told that he is not useless. Sometimes my son stares at traffic for hours.
While her mother would have given gurumai the past, gurumai would have offered the future:
Your daughter is fulfilling her destiny. She has a sister named Bulbul. She has a new mother now, one who cares for her.
That’s why silences were heavy. The words accumulated like the dead, body upon body, until there was a stinking heap of corpses and the smell in the room was too bold for anyone to bear. So of course, Madhu’s mother had to leave.
Where was Madhu during this time?
She was in the operating chamber, locked up, recovering.
In the years since, her mother had never come back. Not once. Yes, Madhu had lost her genitals. But wasn’t Madhu the same person inside, the same soul who to this day had not found solace? It is said that a mother’s love is pure, that when a mother prays for her child, the universe listens. Madhu had discovered that mothers were just as debauched as the rest. In her opinion, the halo needed to be taken off their heads and placed in the gutter, where all halos belonged.
When Madhu learned about her mother’s visit, she begged gurumai to let her go home. For the second time, she asked for permission to leave.
“You can go,” gurumai said, “as soon as you have repaid the loan.”
“What loan?”
Gurumai spat her tobacco into her spittoon and asked Bulbul to fetch her account ledger. She opened it to a page labelled “MADHU” in bold. Underneath her name, there was a list:
