Place to call home

“Yes, I wear foundation. Yes, I live with a man. Yes, I’m a middle-aged fag. But I know who I am, Val. It took me 20 years to get here, and I’m not gonna let some idiot senator destroy that. **** the senator, I don’t give a damn what he thinks.” The impact of these lines, spoken by Armand Goldman, played by Robin Williams in The Birdcage , stays long after the scene ends. It’s a poignant moment in the film that has real world resonance. It’s about a gay parent, Armand, reasoning with his son Val, why he wouldn’t appear to be anything other than who he truly is, so that Val’s soon-to-be father-in-law, the senator, can be convinced that theirs is just a normal American family. (Armand’s partner is Albert, a cross-dressing homosexual who has taken on the role of the woman in their relationship). Cut to 2014 and you have 16 states in the US that have legalised same sex unions.

Back home in India, it took the Supreme Court more than 67 years to grant recognition to the third gender, a community that was relegated to the fringes of Indian society. Looked down upon as an anomaly, even by educated people, those belonging to the third gender made ends meet through begging, prostitution and occasionally ‘blessing’ weddings and childbirth ceremonies. The passing of this landmark verdict hopes to change conditions for them, granting them, most crucially, a sense of identity, dignity and acceptance.

But before those bigger ideals are achieved, the community needs to fulfil something more basic — the need for shelter. While State-run shelters do serve the needs of runaway boys, girls and the homeless, those of the third gender usually have no place to call home, as their families often ostracise them when they learn of their identities.

Sankari, a transgender activist in Chennai, says, “For members of the transgendered community in Tamil Nadu (referred to as Aravanis), the closest thing to a second home are the Jamaaths. Spread across the State, they are a kind of matriarchal society defined by hierarchies like that of a guru and a chela (disciple). The Jamaaths as a whole have been instrumental in the public representation and mobilising of support for the community. But there have been instances where individual outfits have convinced their members into believing that trafficking and begging were the only means to a livelihood in the Jamaath.”

The Jamaath aside, there are few places where such individuals can seek a safe haven. AJ Hariharan, the founder secretary of Indian Community Welfare Organisation, a Chennai-based NGO that works towards improving the living conditions of sexual minorities tells us, “Broadly speaking, there aren’t dedicated facilities to serve the needs of sexual minorities. During adolescence, when the realisation of their sexual identity dawns on these youngsters, they tend to run away from or leave their homes, usually because their families don’t accept them. They would never find accommodation in a regular lodge or a hotel as they are harassed and accused of conducting their business on the premises. Needless to say, these people have to resort to perilous alternatives.”

But baby steps towards the betterment of their existence are being taken. Hariharan says, “We have now tied up with the Chennai Corporation to set up a shelter exclusively for runaway transgendered people. The Corporation is providing the physical infrastructure, such as the buildings that will house these people. We have volunteered to provide residents with free counselling and career guidance so as to channel their faculties into developmental and productive activities.”

Even though the beneficiaries of these programmes find temporary relief in such makeshift arrangements, their end objective remains to find a safe haven, just like everybody else. Deepika (name changed upon request), a 23-year-old Master in Social Work who comes from a low-income background lives in a ladies hostel supported by the NGO. She says, “I am the youngest of four brothers in my family. I was forced out of my home by my parents last week, when they came to know about my effeminate identity. They told me they would rather not have a son like me. I came to this hostel and was taken under the wing of Vasuki, a counsellor. She intends to meet my parents this week and advise them to help me assimilate back in my home.”

The efforts down south mirror those set into motion more than 14 years ago by Anindya Hajra, a transgender rights activist and founder member of Pratyay Gender Trust in Kolkata. Speaking about the trust, Hajra says, “Around two years back, we inaugurated our Pur-Basha Night Shelter and Daytime Drop-in Centre. It was created for trans-women in Kolkata who are part of the street-based sex worker’s community. The impetus behind its creation was that these sex workers, who travelled from far flung areas of the city, had no place to retire after their long working hours. They had no proper food and they were exhausted to the point of collapsing. Most of these ladies have nowhere to dress before they get on with their day. And they used to make do with desolate areas, street corners and taxis, which left them highly vulnerable to sexual assaults. Our facility offers them a respite of sorts where they can recuperate, freshen up with a bath and have a good night’s sleep before they proceed for their work the next day. Our shelter offers these women a space of their own that they can call home.”

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