Life Untold

God

The earliest memory that I can recollect is a vague repetitive dream. The bright headlights, rain, two blurry figures. I woke up again to the same dream today. The birds were still asleep. But it was perfect- a touch of serenity before I got back to another hectic day.

I put on my saree and picked up my makeup. Putting on makeup has a
sweet irony to it. I can’t meet my ends meet and here I was, smiling at
the stained mirror, getting ready to leave my tin-shade palace. It’s been
25 years and I hated reminiscing old memories. The scenarios that took
place somewhere along my god forsaken life started to come back to me.

Today I had to get to work if I were to keep my shade to myself. But the
heart wants what it wants and these feelings were hard to keep at bay.
I was left unconscious by the dustbin, rolled up in a bed sheet. As I heard from Rahim Hijra numerous times, I was covered in marks, cuddled up in the sheet with a pillow. I was taken in by their community. It wasn’t life but it was living, I was given the surname- Hijra. From that day I was Rehena Hijra. By the time I was 10, I had thought up a no. of ways to escape this world. There were the trains that passed by our slums. I could just jump in. poisons and blades appealed more. It all seemed better than being
sold as a sex worker. The guru of us Hijras didn’t like the idea of free
will. I was tortured. I even thought about mutilating myself. If you could cut the bad part of you with a scissor wouldn’t you? In the end, my cowardice kept me living as I watched many die. It didn’t get better each day like the fairy tales. I’d go beg each day with others. I learnt the art of begging, the tricks Hijras use. The way the mothers pulled their kids closer on sight of me reminded me the way my mother pushed me away. Most days I was battered up with questions.
Why was I so despicable? Wasn’t it God who made me this way? Why
was I given feelings when..

When my parents threw me away, all they left was a week’s money. I
don’t hold any resentment towards them. They had the opportunity
towards a peaceful life, even if it meant giving their child up. Each day I longed to remember their face. Even now, when I’m 30, I just wish they
left a note. They didn’t have to beat me up. I’d have left.

All these memories were buried deep in my heart. Over the last 25 years
I’ve learnt not to look back. It was each day that mattered. From dancing in Jatra to spending tortured nights with unknown man, I’ve been forced into so many things that everything’s been numb for a long time. I
couldn’t bring myself to go beg today but sitting here overwhelmed by
these emotions wasn’t the best option either. So I did.

Coming back, I paid my dues. As the lights went off, the headlight of the
car got brighter. Midnight. Rain. It was more of a hallucination than
dream. I was lying by the dustbin. Someone got out of the car. She ran
towards me held me in her arms. “Ma!”

I woke up. The fever was setting in. I hope God is kinder. The rain was
hitting the tin-shed in its own rhythm. There was hope.