My parents’ reaction was to force me into silence because of fear of social disapprobation and their own prejudices from lack of awareness. Unable to assert my identity and communicate my lack of interest in marriage forcefully enough, I ended up yielding to my parents’ wishes and entering into an arranged marriage with a cis man. I have two children from the marriage. 

However, my gender dysphoria did not fade away.  It made its presence felt even stronger, forcing me to accept my authentic self, or else, cease to exist. I chose the former option, despite the many challenges it was bound to bring up. I came out as a man to the people whom I had been lying to for ages.

Following a divorce by mutual consent, and the decision to co-parent the children with my ex-spouse, I needed to relocate from one part of India to another. Prior to my move, I began looking around for schools in the new city that would be welcoming of children from non-traditional families. I was fortunate enough to secure admission for my children in one such school – the teachers and administration were unfazed by my coming out to them. 

While looking to rent a place close to the school, I meanwhile had to stay with my transphobic parents. As a pre-testosterone man, I present as much younger than I actually am. So, when I informed prospective lessors that the house was to be for my children and me, they started asking intrusive and insensitive questions and passed snide remarks about me. 

Many saw me, a young-looking man with two young girls, as a predator. Whenever they saw the three of us, they would repeatedly ask what my relationship was to the kids. To minimise these intrusive questions, I had started to lie that my partner/spouse works abroad and that I am a stay-at-home dad. However, the term “stay-at-home dad” prompted even more insensitive questions, with some even questioning my masculinity as a father who opted to stay at home rather than go to work and earn money.  

People still do not understand that parenting is a responsibility irrespective of the parents’ gender. In my apartment-hunting quest, I have maintained silence about being a person of trans experience, as I do not want to further jeopardise the safety and well-being of my children and me in a society insensitive towards gender diversity.

As my search continues, I cannot help but yearn for a world that is like my children’s school: accepting of diverse families, including single-parent, queer and trans ones.

* Name changed.
* Picture credits: Daughters of Tarun

Biswajit Nath was the managing editor at News Next One, an online digital media portal from Assam. In the video, a kinnar (trans woman) is seen outside a wine shop and Biswajit Nath, who is recording the video, confronts her and asks her where she lives, and who “runs her”. He continues to publicly harass her and abuse her. He asks her “real name”. He even asks her to take her clothes off to prove that she is a “real” kinnar. The video ends with him shouting and screaming at her.

The video was brought to the notice of Xukia by concerned citizen/ally Abdul Kalam Azad and queer activist Rafiul Alom Rahman. Together we were able to raise enough outcry on social media.

The news channel initially replied saying that the journalist’s action does not represent the channel’s stand, that they respect everyone’s rights, and that the video did not appear on an official page of the channel. On March 10, the journalist retorted that he had simply “initiated a discussion” and that there were a lot of fake kinnars.

Finally, we sent a written complaint to the channel.

Some reminders later…

…they acted on our messages, and took action, by terminating Nath.

Kudos to News Next One for acknowledging that the practice was unethical, and for taking action against Nath.

This happened because people together raised their voice and ensured that the transphobic journalist and the channel are made accountable for their actions.

Orinam’s note: Taken together with other examples as the multi-city responses to the TV9 debacle of 2011 in Hyderabad, and protests against a homophobic 2013 piece by Mohana Krishnaswamy in The Hindu, Xukia’s incisive intervention in this News Next One episode illustrates the power of community and ally action in opposing queer-/trans-phobic media coverage and demanding accountability. Please let us know of other examples of community interventions such as these. Do check out (and contribute material to) our guidelines for ethical media coverage of LGBTIQ+ issues in India. 

This year Techfest has taken up the issue of Homophobia and Transphobia, and come up with an idea of spreading awareness on this on the occasion of International Day against Homophobia and Transphobia through an interactive video as we believe that this topic has been untouched in the last few years. People in the LGBTQ community are still facing the problems in their real life which are unknown to the Indian society.

International Day against Homophobia and Transphobia is celebrated on the 17th of May every year. Homo/transphobia refers to hateful treatment and social injustice towards the homosexual and transsexual members who are very much a member of our community as any of us of our community.

This video, created by Saathi, IIT Bombay’s LGBTQ resource group, in association with Techfest, challenges homophobia to build safe spaces for queer people – with just a hug!

The video is a unique social experiment, where strangers of different sexual orientations talk to each other, and hug each other. With a seemingly simple concept, the video captures a spectrum of moments: awkwardness to warmth. A beautiful peculiarity being the instance when a homosexual person comes out his friend on camera – and he still gets a hug.

Telangana Hijra Intersex Transgender Samiti

Contact:
Rachana Mudraboyina 9866177712
Bittu 8179542651
Vyjayanti Vasanta Mogli 9885567958

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

City: Hyderabad | Date: February 21, 2015 | Time: 12:30 pm

Telangana Hijra Transgender Samiti acknowledges the Cyberabad police leadership taking departmental action against the policemen who denuded our Hijra sister, and for solving the Pravallika murder case and taking action against Mr. Venkat who had perpetrated several brutal attacks upon the transgender community over the last several months. The Samiti warns that any future transphobic attacks on the community will be similarly protested with our full energy until action is taken, and we call for action for the speedy implementation of the NALSA vs. UOI judgment of the honorable Supreme Court.

We, the members of the Telangana Hijra Transgender Samiti, after several months of relentless struggle, with support from the media, announce that

1. The Cyberabad Police Commissioner’s Office has investigated and taken action against the policemen who sexually assaulted our Hijra sister S (name withheld) by denuding her for four hours in the KPHB police station on 20^th January 2015 on the pretext of Pravallika murder investigation and jeopardizing her health as an HIV+ person. We hope that policemen and other transphobic people across the state will take note and treat all hijras and transgenders with dignity and respect, as we will rigourously protest any assault on transgender people and ensure that action is taken against any assaulter. We acknowledge the efforts of the Cyberabad and KPHB police leadership for taking internal action against these policemen and the effort of Mr. Kartikeya, DCP for making it clear that the Telangana police will not tolerate transphobia from anyone including its own ranks. We hope they will continue to take a stand against transphobia and also the sexism, casteism, classism and communalism displayed by the police and state towards citizens on a regular basis. THITS has an understanding of the sexist, casteist, classist and communal nature of the state.

2. The KPHB police also solved the Pravallika murder case and arrested the prime accused viz. Kurma Venkateshulu alias Venkat Yadav, Rayapati Rajashekhar Reddy and Kakarla Tirumaleshwar Reddy. We are very hopeful that the fourth accused viz. Ramudu who is absconding will soon be arrested and urge the Cyberabad and KPHB police to arrest him at the earliest. The arrest of Venkat comes after several nights when the transgender community struggled on the street to collectively fend off attacks by Venkat Yadav.

3. We appeal to the media not to refer and/ publish the names assigned at birth to Hijra & Transgender people, and to instead address them by the names of their chosen gender. For example, some newspapers referred Pravallika by the name assigned to her at her time of birth, which was clearly not her chosen identity.   This is important to ensure compliance to the NALSA vs. UOI judgment of the honorable Supreme court and would also ensure responsible and ethical reporting of the incidents involving Hijra and Transgender people.

We appeal to the Government of Telangana and all state agencies to speedily implement the NALSA vs. Union of India judgment of the honorable Supreme court and take concrete steps to help us reclaim our dignity and rightful place in society that is continually under assault by the cultures of silence, invisibilisation, prejudice and violence. We draw attention to our collective struggle to survive in a society that shuns difference, stifles free expression and violently rejects the existence of sexualities and gender identities that differ from the norm.

Our demands include the following:

1. Immediate implementation of the NALSA vs. Union of India judgment of the honorable Supreme Court by the central and state governments, in terms of

a. provision of reservation in jobs and education
b. the framing and implementation of equitable and inclusive laws for the prevention of atrocities, violence, sexual assault and preventing any form of discrimination of sexual and gender minorities
c. to ensure access to jobs, education, housing, bathrooms, public transport, legal recognition in the chosen gender, marriage, adoption, etc.

1. Establishment of a statutory National Transgender Commission on the lines of the National Women’s Commission, as well as a state welfare board run by direct democratic vote by all transgender identified people. This Board should be empowered to facilitate co-ordination among various government departments allowing access of Hijra and transgender women into the existing government welfare schemes. Especially for access to free gender transition medical care, housing, jobs and education.
2. Sensitization of all government organizations, educational institutions, places of work, health care establishments, and private organizations and all other places of day to day life to facilitate acceptance and inclusion of all gender and sexual minorities

Thanking you,

Telangana Hijra Transgender Samiti

I thought immediately of a transgender friend of mine who suffered a major loss late last year. Her Nani, a close relative within the trans community, was stabbed to death in her own home. Her savings, amounting to a few lakhs, and jewellery, had been stolen. The police refused to investigate the case. She had been living with a man that she considered her partner, whom she cared for and gave much of her money to. My friend was certain that this man was involved in the murder. Finally, after a struggle on the part of local activists, the man was questioned. He accused her Nani of “sexually torturing” him. This “sexual torture”- whatever that means!- must have been so unbearable, my friend remarked sarcastically, that he had no choice but to murder her and take all her money! Despite all this evidence, in the minds of the police and the public, the heterosexual man was blameless and the murdered person was the villain.

Even after her demise, my friend’s Nani was suspected of having abetted her own murder. This incredible reversal was achieved by invoking the image of the deceptive, sly, oversexed transwoman, who turns cruel when refused. Transgender people endure horrific kinds of bodily violation everyday because of this image, and they are repeatedly held to blame for this same horrific suffering. This is the image that Shankar has exploited in this film, to the great enjoyment of the audience.

A few days ago, on January 17, 2015, Pravallika, a hijra sex worker in Hyderabad, was murdered [1]. The police refused to investigate the case. The murder was the culmination of a steadily rising tide of transphobic violence. Activists had repeatedly told police how hijra sex workers were pelted with large stones, thrashed on their heads with beer bottles, slit with sharp knives on their limbs, faces and genitalia, and robbed of their income and savings [2]. On Jan 20, the police finally decided to intervene, by interrogating Pravallika’s friend, another hijra sex worker. They confiscated her cell phone and locked her in the police station for 4-5 hours. They made her strip naked and manhandled her body, claiming to “check if she was really a transwoman”. She had not had a penectomy, but cited the recent NALSA judgment by the Supreme Court, asserting the right of a person to claim trans identity independent of surgical status [3]. The police did not stop manhandling her. She was eventually forced to admit that she was HIV positive and that she could not bear the cold for so long. Their only response to this was to cover their face and mouth when they came near her; they did not return her clothes. They have now accused the community of conspiring to kill Pravallika.

The same week, on January 22, a transgender sex worker was picked up for questioning regarding a murder case in Pulianthope police station, Chennai. Police suspended her by her legs from the ceiling and inserted a lathi into her post-operative genital opening. They left her hanging and bleeding for hours. The next day, they arrested someone else and let her go. She is currently receiving treatment at Stanley Medical College Hospital. Some activists associated with Nirangal are trying to file a human rights violation report against the police.

In 2008-2009 there were multiple cases in Chennai and Bangalore, accusing transgender women of “deceiving” innocent men. With minor variations, news reports claimed that transwomen lured these innocent heterosexual men into their dark lair, castrated them, and forced them into prostitution. Following these cases, the Bangalore police raided hundreds of hijras’ homes in the neighborhood of Dasarahalli, leaving many homeless and bereft of all their belongings. These raids have increasingly become a common occurrence, along with other kinds of violence on trans bodies, perpetrated by police, rowdies, family members, and the general public.

Some people still obstinately argue that these are “stereotypes” that don’t reside in real life. “I mean come on yaar, Bollywood stereotypes everyone! Look at “Chennai Express”!”. These people miss the fact that the image of the deceptive, cruel transgender woman is much more than a harmless stereotype. It is a construct of our criminal justice system, dating back to the 19th century.

In 2009, the Karnataka Government amended The Police Act to include a clause permitting “the registration and surveillance of all eunuchs reasonably suspected of kidnapping and emasculating young boys” [4]. The wording of the act borrows almost verbatim from The Criminal Tribes Act of 1871, a colonial-era legislation premised on the notion that certain communities “breed” criminal tendencies. The law holds that in the case of such “innately criminal” communities, suspicion of committing a crime, or of planning to commit a crime, is enough reason to detain an individual without trial for up to one year. In Tamil Nadu this lives on in the form of “The Goondas Act”, under which Section 377 was recently brought [5].

The “deceptive cruel transgender woman” is an image into which real police conduct real investigations that cost real money, for which real people are jailed and really killed, for which real newspaper reporters are sent to cover real cases that happen in real courts. Try laughingly telling the person suspended from the ceiling of Pulianthope police station, bleeding for hours: “Lighten up, yaar! It is just a stereotype! Over time, we will educate the police! For now, its just a movie!”

The suffering of transgender people has been extensively documented. There is ample evidence to show that it happens everyday, everyday, everyday [6]. Yet the transgender person emerges as the sick monster that is responsible for their own suffering. Something about the laughter in the theatre today seemed to indicate how this reversal happens. Witnessing and documenting trans suffering doesn’t provoke outrage: instead it becomes a kind of pornography, a fodder for deep and genuine enjoyment. When witnessed, for some it leaves no impact; they feel a sense of unruffled calm no matter how loud the noise. For others, it even provokes a real sense of pleasure: smiles, big belly laughs, thundering applause. The pain turns into a kind of tragicomedy, a lilting music.

References

[1] https://new2.orinam.net/statement-telangana-hijra-transgender-samiti-to-condemn-police-brutality/

[2] https://www.facebook.com/telanganahijratrans

[3] http://www.lawyerscollective.org/updates/supreme-court-recognises-the-right-to-determine-and-express-ones-gender-grants-legal-status-to-third-gender.html

[4] http://infochangeindia.org/agenda/access-to-justice/policing-hijras.html

[5] http://www.thehindu.com/opinion/editorial/goondas-act-preventive-detention-law-in-tamil-nadu-amendments-a-threat-to-personal-liberty/article6332457.ece

[6] http://www.pucl.org/Topics/Gender/2004/transgender.htm

More articles on “I” on Orinam and mainstream media

Smiley’s letter to Director Shankar: https://new2.orinam.net/ta/open-letter-to-director-shankar-i-ta/

News coverage of protests against “I”: http://www.thehindu.com/news/cities/chennai/transgenders-speak-out-at-second-protest-against-i/article6817247.ece

Sir,

I watched “I”.

I stand here in Tamil Nadu, where religious fundamentalist forces have ensured that a creative piece of work has been retracted and its author gone into exile, where – on grounds that it hurt religious sentiments – “The Da Vinci Code” was banned, and “Viswaroopam” was temporarily banned and went on to get a lot of publicity, becoming a high grosser.

I stand here today and look at your work. Everyone knows that a ‘Shankar film’ caters to the actor’s hunger for versatility in a role, the producer’s fetish for money, the mad worship of a rogue masquerading as a hero, or  the blatant misogyny underlying the blind craze among fans.

However, you would have known that most critics, barring a predictable few, have found the film disappointing. While they have ridiculed your script and your screenplay, it seems to be beyond them to criticise your ridiculing the ‘nine’* (trans) character in your movie. I am amazed at the wonders of freedom of expression exercised in the making of this particular work. You are, after all, the epic director! You are free to depict us, trans* people as sex freaks, sociopaths, second class citizens, or in any way you want to. I’m sure you would have liked it when one of them took a leaf out of your book and wrote, ‘there’s another villain, a “nine”thara.’

Beyond your magnificent ambition, ostentatious sets,  striking actors, and your grand budget, I would like to reach out to your large and imposing mind. If the appalling denigration of transwomen in “Shivaji” (when Vivek says ‘It has just come back from surgery,’ and our super star moves away, disgusted) was at one level, you have surpassed yourself by taking transphobia to a whole new level in “I”.

This insignificant little girl would like to speak a few words with you about this.

Just ten minutes into the film, Vikram, the epitome of on-screen machismo, stares at the villain and says ‘dei, potta’. I was not surprised. Other ‘pottai-s** like me and I are used to such slander on screen. When Vinoth, director of the socially-sensitive film “SathurangaVettai”, casually uses the word ‘pottai’ as an abuse, and critics ruling this part of the world support him, can we expect any less from you?

Shankar, how are we, the pottais of the world, any less dignified than your masculine ideal? Is that ideal bigger than our realization that our being is filled with femininity, and we yearn to live the truth of our gender? Is your ideal much bigger than the courage to be honest and leave the safety of our home, and the comfort of our families? Is your ideal nobler than us losing our basic rights as citizens, when we run away and become refugees, second-class citizens, in our own country? Is it more magnificent than the scorching pyre of starting life afresh as a woman, without economic or social support? Is it any grander than us bearing with fortitude, the violence of your masculine ideal on our bodies every day of our lives? Or, Shankar, do you simply think we do not feel at all? That we cannot realize our dignity is assaulted?

It’s fine that you wanted five villains. I understand your script required all of them to be from the film industry. But then, you wanted one villain among them to be plush and grand and at the same time comical. I am appalled that you chose to have a transwoman as that villain.

Your transwoman character is a stylist. Just so that you wanted it to be authentic you cast Ojas Rajani – Aishwarya Rai’s stylist in “Enthiran” (I wonder if she knew what she was doing; if you told her how transphobic her character is in the movie). Even while she is introduced as the top stylist by the ciswoman who plays the leading lady, why do the hero and the friend look down on this transwoman? You must know that there are numerous examples of transwomen who have risen to great heights, battling these very same struggles. Do you wish to make the statement that despite our rising to great heights, the fact that we are trans* is reason enough to look down on us? To denigrate us? When you see fans update their vocabulary to use the name of a popular film that strove to bring dignity to the transgender community (I am referring to the film “Kanchanaa” which, surprisingly, against its intention, has lent its title to be used by people to tease us these days), why would you start with that popular song sung by a travelling group of transwomen singer-dancers, “oororam puliyamaram”? Unfailing your ignoble intention, the audience erupted with laughter at this mean usage of the song. Would you have heard the wail of our mothers, who are, just like your “Muthalvan” Pugazh’s mother, in anguish?

Your leading man sees your leading lady only in posters and on the silver screen, falls in love with her – true and honest – and yet manages to not have any sexual desires at all. And your leading lady loves him in return, thanks to guilt and sympathy. When this is okay, how is it that the love of a transwoman is so worthless that it disgusts not just the leading man, but also the lady, and the friend, and the faraway ad filmmaker? This disgust is a tool you have employed to vilify the character in your script, isn’t it? When you wanted to show her as a rich transwoman, your camera lens showed her in a very beautiful light. Immediately after her love is brushed aside as being worthy of scorn, your camera shows her as a despicable person. Shankar, let me tell you, your camera does not just show a despicable Ojas, it shows a despicable you!

You know, right up to this scene I wanted to be civil and polite in expressing my angst. Just when you showed us that Ojas occupied Room No. 9, I lost it. You must know that I have been called ‘nine’ all my life in school. I was poked and pierced on all sides, torn apart, left alone and to nothing but tears, with this number. I still have this number now, thrown at me on the streets. I also have the arsenal of swear words I have picked up on the way, and I would not hesitate to throw back at you. But then, the critics of the world (special mention, Cable Shankar) will take it upon themselves to give me lessons in cultured conversation. I do not want that; so I will continue to be polite.

While the censor board made you place the disclaimer, ‘No animals were harmed during the making of this film’, it turned a blind eye to the blatant discrimination of sexual and gender minorities, and people with physical disabilities – granting you the freedom to hurt and offend these sections of the population. What is the use of questioning the faults in your work without condemning the kindness of the CBFC?

Let’s turn to your leading actor Vikram. He has risen to great heights after much effort and hard work, but he is no exception to this insensitivity – the film that gave him his big break, Bala’s “Sethu”, has him say ‘de, you are going to become an ajak one day, doing this’. His inspiration – the rationalist, modernist, liberal – Kamal Haasan has, after all, used ‘pottai’ with such recklessness, and has famously vilified transwomen and homosexuals in his film ‘Vettayaadu Vilayaadu’. This insensitivity is common to every actor here.

But still, if it will reach, I’d like to say one thing to you – and all actors, comedians and directors. The men of this world are not your only audience – those men who worship that abusive, insensitive, patriarchal, masculine ideal that denigrates people who are courageous enough to live the truth. Your work is also watched by those very same people you denigrate, alienate and laugh at. We have TVs in our homes. We watch your films. We laugh, we enjoy. We also feel. We can also rise in fury when our dignity is assaulted.

* Nine: “ombOdu”, a derogatory Tamil term for transgender and other gender-nonconforming people.

** poTTai: another derogatory Tamil word, loosely translated as “sissy” and used  against gender non-conforming and transgender people, but also used in some communities as a non-derogatory reference to girls and women.

See original letter in Tamil by Smiley here.

My answer is not really straightforward. I must reflect on key events in my life to attempt to answer this question.

Born into a family that belonged to an ‘upper caste’ as defined by Hindu beliefs, I grew up with the privilege accorded to a heterosexual gender-normative middle-class male. Though our family has seen significant financial turmoil, we never really struggled for food or shelter. As a child, I did not perceive the existence of oppression in my circles, nor did my family tell me anything about it. Why would they? We never saw any of it.

I was sent to good schools and grew up listening to stories of people from difficult backgrounds who had made it big through sheer hard work. All the students I hung out with belonged to a similar social stratum. I assumed my bubble mirrored all of society. At that stage, I did not know much about the evils such caste and poverty that plagued our society. The notion that everyone had the same opportunities and it was up to people to utilise the same and get rich or gain power was constantly reinforced in me. I started passing judgments on people with whom I had no immediate contact with at a rather early age. When I saw homeless and/or elderly people seeking alms on the street, I did not see people who had been socially marginalised. I deemed them lazy and judged them for having being reckless in spending in their younger years, thereby having brought their current state of poverty on themselves. In effect I was a complete believer of the ‘Just World Theory’, where one assumed that everything was fair, and to complain was an act of cowardice.

My first realization that people weren’t neatly divided into the man-woman binary was as a young boy traveling in a local train. I saw a group of transwomen (I know this in retrospect, not then) seeking money from the public, performing their signature claps. Curious, I asked my mother who they were. She answered, out of ignorance – or because she didn’t know how to explain to a child – that they were people who had two hearts. Relentlessly, I sought details and asked her how two hearts would fit into the circulatory system. Questions like these, whether to my mother, or to teachers while discussing sexual reproduction in biology class, were met with discomfort, awkward pauses, shifty answers and attempts to change the topic. I internalized this discomfort as transphobia.

When a classmate, a boy with stereotypically feminine traits, was bullied and excluded by his peers from discussion and socialization, I was among those who joined in the jeering.

My pursuit to learn the Vedas sent me on a fundamentalist spree for a short while.

I may, perhaps, have remained that way throughout my life.

In my late teens, my world, as I had imagined it, broke down. Though I held that people had equal opportunities, the statistics said otherwise. Certain communities had more people in the upper economic strata and some were over-represented in the poorer sections. Inequalities were also evident along gender lines in politics, workforce, social participation etc. In trying to reconcile these facts with with my belief system, I was faced with the following choices:

1. Assume women, gender minorities, sexual minorities etc. were inherently inferior.
2. Accept I was wrong in my assertion that life is fair to all.

I knew that the first possibility wasn’t true, leaving behind the alternative. This was the defining moment when my belief system broke down. I stopped assuming fairness and looked at the world again. Like NEO in matrix, I suddenly saw a whole new layer hovering around our lives. I noticed my relatives advising their daughters not to laughout loud or tell them not to go out after it was dark. I had never heard anyone tell me any of this. I began questioning the male privilege I had taken for granted.

Following much introspection and re-examination of my religious beliefs, I moved out of my safe zone and embraced atheism. I ended up being severely ostracised by peers for an episode in which my actions were deemed contrary to the strongly religious-cultural ethos at my school. No one spoke to me, and my classmates actively avoided me. Two years passed thus, leaving deep and long-lasting marks on my sense of self. During this period of extended social rejection, realisation hit me hard. What I was experiencing then must have been exactly what my supposedly feminine male classmate must have felt all these years. The reasons were different, but the exclusion, and resultant pain must have felt similar. And what I felt was temporary: he must have been experiencing this for a long time. The day after I had this realisation, I walked over to him next in the class, said “I am sorry”, and walked away without explaining why I apologised.

While I was able to emerge from that phase of being secluded and return to my more social self, the realisation that there are people marginalised overtly and covertly – sometimes for their entire lives – remained with me. I started speaking with classmates whom the class mocked often, and trying to learn about why they were excluded. This continued into college.

Unfortunately, this behaviour on my part was driven by a misplaced sense of sympathy. I assumed that it was noble to devote my time for the betterment of others. But as time went by, I realised the folly of a sympathy- rather than empathy- driven approach. Time and again I caught myself believing in nonsense and spewing nonsense, but it only amplified my drive to be a better human being. I kept pushing aggressively and started systematically studying.

In 2011, while in my third year of college, I met some people at Nirmukta, an organisation dedicated to promoting secular humanism and free thought. Interacting both online and offline with this community guided me on the principles of structured logical thought and laid the foundations of humanism for everyone to adhere to. Nirmukta members were patient enough engage with me and my still-evolving convictions, and helped me organise my thoughts in a coherent logical manner.

I read about and grew aware of the injustice meted out to caste minorities and noticed my own relatives engaging in caste-based discrimination. I read about the difficulties and struggles of people with physical and mental disabilities. I observed the difficulties faced by women every single day of their lives, a reality of subjugation, harassment and violence. The prejudice faced by gender minorities and people of different sexual orientations. With the single key of empathy, I learned to love of people regardless of any minor unimportant difference between us.

Subsequently, the biggest challenge crept in. I felt it was no longer adequate to simply believe in these ideas and confront my prejudices. It was necessary for the people I love too to stop inadvertently cause mental harm to others. Within the circle of loved ones, the closest were my immediate family. Coming out to them as an atheist and ally of LGBT people appeared an insurmountable goal. I wasn’t really sure about what my parents believed in. I knew a large number of my relatives were right-wing fundamentalists, but I wasn’t sure how open my parents were to receiving alternate points of view, some challenging their most fundamental assumptions.

Summoning the courage, one day in December 2013, I initiated a discussion at home by expressing my anguish over the Supreme Court verdict upholding Sec 377. Curious, my parents asked what it was. Apparently they really hadn’t thought about any of this. What became a Sunday afternoon of intense discussion, soon became a regular affair at home with everyone discussing the problems faced by sexual minorities and women. I realized that their reservations around LGBT issues were overridden by the humanistic values they held.

A few months later, when I announced that I planned to participate in Chennai Rainbow Pride March, they immediately asked if they could join too!

We still do have animated discussions on feminism and LGBTQI rights, and I know that while my parents still have questions, they are most definitely not fundamentalist in their view.

Back to the original question, what prompts me to speak up and intervene when I see discrimination?

Answer: Why wouldn’t I? It is a shame that inequality and injustice persists. Replace the words ‘women’, ‘caste minorities’ and ‘LGBTQI’ with ‘human’. Rephrase terms ‘women’s rights’ and ‘LGBT rights’ with ‘human rights’ and the answer becomes self-evident.

I guess the answer is best summed up by what Desmond Tutu said “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. If an elephant has its foot on the tail of a mouse, and you say that you are neutral, the mouse will not appreciate your neutrality.”

* Geetha TG and Soorya Sriram. What’s going on with men? 

Geetha TG and Soorya Sriram. Transgender Woes.

Geetha TG and Soorya Sriram. A No is a ‘No’ – Not ‘Yes’, Not ‘Maybe’.

boy with blonde hair
girl in mini skirt
men who love men
women who defy

busy market
lonely mill
khap panchayat
supreme court

colonial laws
draconian views
unless you conform
atrocities continue

dare you speak
if you’re weak
“not enough numbers”
“not many members”

largest democracy
highest hypocrisy

Dedicated to Nido Tania, a 20 year old student from Arunachal Pradesh, India who died after being harassed and beaten up for his “blonde hair” at a market place in Delhi, India

Image: Justice for Nido Tania FB page

You oppose:

The Indian government decriminalizing consensual sexual acts between adults in private

Why?

• It will lead to pedophilia – Read what you are opposing (Keyword: Adults)

• It will lead to bestiality – Read what you are opposing again (Keyword: Consensual -Animals do not have the capacity to consent to humans for sex)

• It is against religion – We hate to do this, but read what you are opposing one more time (Keywords: Indian government. Secular. Not a church, temple, gurudwara or a mosque)

• It is a western import – now, we have to ask you to read the extensive scholarship on sexual and gender diversity in Indian mythology. I know we are asking too much. Just look at the picture.

• It is against Indian culture – Indian culture is all about tolerance and inclusiveness. We celebrate all forms of diversity, including diversity of intellect – You and us!

• It is unnatural – you shouldn’t be reading this in the first place. Computers weren’t found in nature either. Log off . Right now! And never log on again. Not even for porn. (PS: Homosexuality is natural and found in hundreds of species)

He was stark naked in the bathroom, razor in hand, and had shaving foam covering his entire torso. Blood and the white of the foam together made a royal mess. Even then, with his heart racing at the sight of blood, he could not help but think that it looked delicious in a way. Like someone had thrown red velvet cake splat on Chinna’s chest. To get some ice, he would have to go to the kitchen, but before that he would have to wipe himself clean and cover himself properly. When he poured water over himself and let it wash away all the foam, he could see his chest hair still sticking to him in patches. He had only been half way through the shaving when he cut a nipple by mistake. The bleeding refused to stop, and it stung. He held the breast firmly in his hand, and it only made him bleed more. Without a moment’s thought, he tried to do what he had always done whenever he cut his fingers while chopping vegetable, and much earlier while using shaving blades to sharpen pencils at school.

He tried to squeeze his breast up towards his lips and suck the wounded tip. He couldn’t. However much he lowered his head, pressed his chin to his chest and stuck his tongue out towards his nipple, he couldn’t make them meet. He threw his head back in frustration, flung the razor away, slid down the wall, and cried silently, mouth wide open.

Sharpening pencils was one thing. But is altogether another thing to use the blade to blunt your edges, smooth out the sharpnesses that both mark you to the world and also flip around to cut you from the inside, like a revolving double-edged dagger that, in its great speed, looks like a benign spinning ball of the self. The more you send it out into the world to let yourself be seen , the greater is the vehemence with which it comes back to shred your to smithereens.

In the spacious studio apartment, Chinna stood at the kitchen counter, with his back to Ron, heating milk for coffee. Though they have only been going out for a few weeks now, he was used to Ron’s quiet, unobtrusive presence in the house whenever he came. He usually sat down with some book while Chinna did his own work. Sometimes Ron just dozed off, lying flat on his back right there on the mattress on the floor, with the pages of some open book embracing him over his chest. Looking at him during some of those times, he has wondered if Ron managed to drop into everyone’s life so quietly, without raising a ripple.

But today was going to be a challenge, thought Chinna. It could throw even Ron out of balance. How could I have sex with him today without letting him in on how much I hate my body right now, that I would rather close my eyes and will myself to be someone else? Chinna feared one of two things could follow such a disclosure. A conversation. This perpetual celebration of talking, this belief in clearing things out by talking, as if words ever really had that kind of power – he had no energy for that, at least, at the moment. Or it could be a shrinking back and rejection that he feared. He didn’t have energy for that either.

He felt sex was not such a good idea then, but then he wouldn’t know unless he tried. Usually, he avoided sex when he felt so unsure of who he was.  But it might have to be different today. As he leaned over the counter, he looked down to check for blood stain on his shirt. He had done that the entire afternoon, sitting across from Ron at the restaurant. He was afraid that there might suddenly be a splatter of blood spreading across his chest, giving him away.  No blood.

“Cream and sugar?” he asked, turning around. Ron looked up from the book he had opened randomly in the middle. “Yes! Thank you!” he smiled.

Chinna wrapped a towel around his waist, threw another one over his shoulders and walked out of the bathroom. Before stepping out of the bedroom, he opened the door gently and peeped out to see if his mother, who was visiting, was in the living room, and if he would be bombarded with questions for taking ice cubes from the freezer. She didn’t seem to be around. On the way to the refrigerator, he caught through the corner of eyes his quick reflection in the full-length mirror propped against a wall in the living room. His quick, tiptoed run took him a few steps ahead, but he halted on his track and took a few quiet, slow steps back, turned his head alone to the left and stood looking at himself, in profile, in the mirror. He lifted slightly the towel that lay over his shoulders covering his nipples. When he thought he could not see clearly, he took off the towel completely, but before doing that he looked in the direction of the kitchen to make sure his mother was not around. She didn’t seem to be.

Focussing again on his sideways reflection in the mirror, he thrust his chest out a little and made his nipples look prominent and imagined that they pierced the sky in front of him, making a small tear in some invisible but persistent layer he could one day step out of.  This made the arch of his back pronounced, and his butt too stretched out into a deeper curve, into a bigger bubble. Lifting both his hands simultaneously, he touched himself on both his nipples, felt the alert areola reacting to the recent touch of the blade, he held the curve of his breasts on his palms for a second, and brought his hands down to his waist and took them around his ass.  Then he threw the towel back around his neck and walked swiftly to the fridge.

He could find no ice cubes, but his mother’s ice pack was in the freezer. He grabbed it, rushed back to the room, latched the door on the inside, and pressed the ice pack to the nipple. It hurt like hell. He sat down on the bed and leaned back on the pillows. He removed the ice pack from this chest and took a good look at himself. The right side of his chest was shaven smooth and clean, and the nipple stood clean and poised, while the one on the blooded side stood surrounded by strands of hair. He was disgusted to see patches of hair still on his half-shaven chest. Still, he ran his fingers over this torso, wondering if he could will himself to like his body as it was. He stopped when his fingers reached the towel fold around this waist. He dreaded what was to come. He knew he would be flooded by a massive wave of disgust, but he braved it and undid the towel. Never before did he hate the irrefutable solidity of the body so much. Its stubbornness, it’s utter refusal to be anything other than what it was hurt him afresh each time. He spread his legs a little, and with vehemence pushed his penis and testicles down with his hands, closed his legs tight, and pulled out his hands slowly. It gave him some comfort not to have to feel them with his hands.

Ron was sitting on the mattress on the floor and looking at Chinna pour coffee into mugs. As Chinna walked towards Ron and gave him his coffee, Ron patted the mattress, signaling Chinna to sit next to him. They sat, their backs against the wall, and just above their heads the bottom rod of the blinds over the window beating against the wall in the wind. Ron had his feet stretched in front of him, and the light through the blinds was now casting moving shadow stripes on his feet and jeans. Chinna too felt like putting his leg out to catch the lines of light and shadow on his feet. And he did. “This would make a great photograph,” said Ron, “just our legs and these stripes of light.” Chinna turned to smile at Ron, who had a twinkle in his eyes when he said, “But this light play will look much better on bare skin. We can be zebras.” Chinna did not say anything in reply, but he turned to look at his legs and gently pulled his trousers up to reveal more of his ankle and lower leg. Ron laughed.

Chinna closed his eyes and touched the tips of his nipples gently with his fingers. As he played with them, his erection threatened to spring up from its confinement between his thighs. So Chinna stopped and waited for it to subside. Then suddenly he squeezed his breasts violently and stopped only when he felt the wetness of blood from the left nipple again on his fingers. With equal vehemence, he crossed his legs at the ankles and pressed his thighs together until everything hurt.

They now lay facing the window, with the light through the blinds casting its stripes on their faces and naked torsos. Black and light and black and light. Chinna had one leg bent and the other leg balanced over the bent knee. Like he was sitting, but had only decided to change his plane. To look skyward instead. He looked at his legs and tried to focus on a part of this light play where a strip of shadow ended and a sheath of light began. Though the plastic strips of the blinds themselves were quite solid with sharp edges, their shadows appeared to have lost their confidence. Their corners were blurred and looked even more vulnerable when they moved in the wind.

Ron turned on his side and propped his head up with a hand. “You are awfully quiet today. Even more than usual. What happened?” he said.

“Nothing really.”

“Then it is something not-so-really? Tell me, tell me,” Ron teased, putting his forefinger into Chinna’s deep navel and tickling it.

With his other hand, he touched Chinna on his neck. Chinna lay, with his eyes closed, his legs crossed at the ankles and his thighs held tight against each other. As Ron’s hand glided over his neck, Chinna clutched at the carpet below with one hand and laid his other hand over Ron’s, that was playing with his navel. Ron’s hand moved down to Chinna’s chest and very quickly to his right nipple.

“Nice. Did you get it waxed?” said Ron.

“No. I shaved. Waxing hurts.”

“Hmm. But it looks like you have hurt yourself shaving too,” said Ron, and brought his head down to kiss Chinna on his left nipple. His tongue moved very gently, but Chinna could still feel the sting from the cut. He winced.

Chinna kept his eyes shut and forced himself to imagine his body otherwise. He thought it should be easy. At any given moment, Chinna could not really bring to his mind an accurate vision of himself as he was. He could never clearly remember himself. Whenever he stood in front of a mirror, there was a moment of “Ah okay,” as if he just recognized himself. So shouldn’t it be easy now, he wondered, to see myself as altogether something else? Not with these sad little hairy absences, but full, rounded breasts, with large areolas stretched out with the fullness of the milk inside. Not with what were dangling between his legs, but something else, something that draws inward. But it wasn’t easy. The body was all too real to be thus willed away.

Chinna chose not to force it, not to fight his body so much. He was holding his body so taut that every inch of him hurt. He decided to let go and relax. Just as he began to loosen his body, his eyes still closed, it happened. He got, for just an instant, that vision. He saw himself inside his eyes just exactly how he wanted himself to look; he saw his body as just exactly how he wanted to see it.

Ron’s tongue continued to play on Chinna’s left nipple while his fingers moved down to his tummy. Chinna felt seized at once by pleasure, pain and panic. As Ron’s fingers explored further down, Chinna relaxed his legs and hoped that the miracle would happen again, that he would get to see himself, at least in his imagination, at least for a split second, as he wanted to be, not as what he was. Till today, he doesn’t know what gave him the courage to trust and let go, to not be on his guard. But that’s what he did.

Until then he had held his body taut like a catapult aiming a sharp attack at god knows what. Much like a boy who has suddenly lost interest in his target and relaxed his aim and dropped down the weapon, he loosened himself. His body remembered the time when he once managed to float on the shallow waters of a sea. Seeing one of his friends just lie back and float, he asked to be held while he tried it too, though he couldn’t swim then. In the very first attempt, he had floated, with no hand supporting his back. He dropped his head back and arched his torso out towards the sky like he was asked to do, and he floated. Chinna had thought at that moment about the rules for trust for different things. When people free-fall during para-jumping, they are asked to arch their head and legs in trust and glory towards the sky, if only to give the monstrous, rushing wind the least resistance possible. On the ground, you are supposed to give yourself to whatever surface is beneath you, let your body drape on it and take whatever shape of letting go it wants. And on water, you let your head down backward, raise your bum, thrust your torso up towards the sky that is suddenly all over, more all-over than ever before.

“Just trust it and let go,” his friend had said then. And Chinna had found that an absolutely natural thing to do. For a while after that, he had consciously called on that bodily memory whenever walking on steady ground felt like a shaky proposition. He drew comfort from recollections of floating, of being held and rocked. But like most experiences, it had slowly receded in significance. Until today. He floated again, even if only for just a tiny moment.

He unclenched his abdominal muscles and released his firm hold on the world. Salt water sloshed against his ears and he could hear no more the clack of the blinds against the window or the room heater resurrecting after a brief rest. All that he could hear was the heady whispers of the sky and the water asking him to trust them. One from below and the other from over him. He was being bounced up and down, and he drank some water. It was incredibly salty and made his nostrils burn. His fingers let go of their claw-hold on the carpet next to him and let water buoy up through the gaps between them. Sensing it was not hard ground that could give away under him any minute, he gifted away his weight, opened his eyes to the bright blue sky over him and breathed out gently and for long.

Right then, Ron pressed down gently below Chinna’s navel and stopped suddenly. Chinna was very confused. He opened his eyes and saw that Ron had risen slightly, propping himself on one elbow, and was looking at where his hand was on Chinna’s body, all the while pressing it down gently at the same spot. When he saw Chinna’s perplexed look, he relaxed, but he did not remove his hand. He smiled awkwardly and said, “Sorry.”
“It’s alright. But what happened?” Chinna asked.
“Oh it is really silly,” said Ron, trying to dismiss it.
“It is okay. Do tell me.”
“No, I am sorry. It might be hurtful.” Ron was really apologetic now.
“No, I can handle it. Tell me.”
“Well,” said Ron, “I think it was a moment of hallucination, but when I pressed my hand down there, it felt suddenly like I was not touching a man’s body.”
“What do you mean?” Chinna smiled and rose slightly, propping himself up on both his elbows.
Ron felt encouraged by Chinna’s smile to go on. “I could have sworn that my hand just expected not to find a cock there. Something else. Does it make sense? I am so sorry. I am blabbering,” he said and looked away in embarrassment.
“No, no, no,” Chinna said and turned Ron’s face back towards him. “It makes sense. It so does. Thank you so much.”

“But you are crying,” Ron said in mild panic. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I am sure I was just imagining it. My mind playing tricks on me. Please don’t cry, Chinna.” He sat up looking very concerned and held Chinna by his shoulders as he covered his face with his hands and wept.

Ron moved closer to him and put his arms around him. He sat there holding Chinna until the weeping stopped, and after.