I was on the way back home. I was still pondering. I was sitting next to a thickset fisherwoman in the train. And a woman entered the compartment. She was six feet tall. Her face was beautiful. She wore a lehenga-choli with lovely windows here and there. For ventilation. The dupatta unfulfilled its purpose effectively. Everyone stared at her. Oblivious to all the attention she glided to the nearby seats and spoke aloud. In a masculine voice, she booked a place for herself. The stares intensified. People sitting close to her reflexly flinched.
She was a he. A eunuch. The woman, next to whom she sat, was at the epitome of recoil. Stares became whispers. Someone had a digicam. A request for a pose. 'Say cheese'. A flash in the ladies compartment. Whispers became conversations. It was a relief. She seemed to be just like one of us. Mansi. Her profession, dancing. Not barging into trains and slapping people on their heads and begging for money. Conversations became laughter. More photos, group photos, this time. She had a cell phone. It rang 3 times. She answered them loudly, like anyone of us, in a crowded train. She had friends.
She got up to leave. The stares were back. She walked past the eyeballs and descended gracefully onto the platform. The whispers turned into jibes. Chakki. Not Mansi. Not she. Not he. Just a beautiful body in a tasteful attire. And a hope to be accepted. Something which all of us take for granted. The desire to look and feel feminine. And fill up the gender column in every form. Without a thought. Where there is no third option.
P.S. For the uninitiated, naadaa is a piece of string which holds a petticoat or lehenga around every woman's waist in this country. It is the unsung hero of why saree days are a success in KEM, year after year.
