Bullied by the eunuchs
By Henry Chu
Los
Angeles Times
June 7, 2006
NEW DELHI — The eunuchs came calling before I'd even moved in.
On a recent afternoon, as I stood surrounded by a dozen workers
hammering, sawing and drilling in my new apartment, they materialized
out of nowhere, two sari-clad women with suspiciously mannish features.
The taller one had a broad face, a big nose and a purple sari — a color
I like, but not on her. The other was thin, almost bird like, in every
way: face, body, voice. Something about their manner, or their rather
harsh, heavily made-up look, put me on guard.
"Yes?" I said cautiously.
The tall one launched into a stream of Hindi. Newly posted to India, I
know little of the language. But one word I did recognize, baksheesh
(tip), clued me in to what was going on — that and the fact that the
voice repeating it over and over was a richer baritone than mine. I was
being hit up for a handout by one of this country's many hijras.
They are eunuchs or otherwise transgendered people by birth, accident
or choice. Something between male and female, they are shunned by
Indian society as unclean. Many make a rough living through
prostitution or by crashing weddings, birthday parties and other
festive occasions, threatening to disrupt the celebrations with vulgar
behavior and to bring bad luck unless they are paid off.
And now they were in my living room.
I don't know how they found me, but I didn't want to provoke them; some
hijras are known to grow violent, and the bigger one could easily take
me down. But I also don't like being bullied for money, so I thought it
best to smile blandly and feign incomprehension. They were undeterred,
trailing me from room to room in the wilting heat.
"Mister, baksheesh," the smaller one said, more insistent now, tugging
at my shirt and pawing at my pocket. Then she reached into the bosom of
her sky-blue sari and pulled out a wad of bills, like some scene out of
a bad movie, so that there was no mistaking what she wanted. I kept
playing dumb.
India has somewhere between half a million and a million eunuchs. The
estimates are very approximate, because the hijras live in a secretive,
shadowy world they've created for themselves away from the abuse and
persecution of general society.
They gather in public in large numbers only at their annual
conventions, which always attract media attention for the skillful
dancing, the raucous atmosphere and the sight of gaudy clothing draped
around burly shoulders and dainty jewels hanging off overly thick
wrists.
In antiquity, India's eunuchs dressed as men, and a few were granted
royal jobs — for example, as guardians of harems. But today's hijras
make themselves up as women. In the West, they would probably be
identified as something between a cross-dresser and a transsexual; in
India, they often describe themselves as a third sex, and refer to
themselves as "she."
A few have become well-known. One was elected mayor of her city.
Another has recently written an autobiography. Activists demanding
greater rights scored an important victory last year when the Foreign
Ministry began offering "E" as an option under "gender" on India's
passport application form.
Only a handful of outsiders have managed to pierce the veil of secrecy
surrounding the hijra community. The writer William Dalrymple, in his
book "City of Djinns," describes an often well-ordered sisterhood
divided geographically into local "parishes" whose members, overseen by
den mothers, diligently work their beat.
To ferret out parties to crash, eunuchs often bribe, flatter and flirt
with the doormen in their neighborhoods, developing an impressive,
reliable network of informants that, as a reporter, I couldn't help but
admire.
As a target, I wasn't too happy. After several minutes, the persistence
of my two interlopers began to make me nervous, as did the tic in the
big one's jaw, which was a good bit squarer than mine.
The tradesmen in the house tried to help me out, pointing out that I
was only a tenant, not the owner of the new apartment. "Go talk to the
landlord," they told the two hijras, who scowled in response.
The short one continued to appeal to me directly, gazing at me
meaningfully and sprinkling her Hindi with unmistakable English phrases
like "a thousand rupees" (about $22). At one point she knelt down and
touched my feet in a sign of obeisance or importunity. Then, growing
frustrated by my stinginess, she drew up the hem of her sari, perhaps
to warn me that she was ready to flash her mutilated parts, a common
tactic among eunuchs to hurry horrified partygoers into forking over
cash to get their uninvited guests to leave.
How the hijras come by their condition varies. Some are born
hermaphrodites, considered by many Indians to be a terrible curse.
Others feel as though they are feminine souls trapped in masculine
bodies and undergo voluntary castration — the luckier, better-off ones
through chemicals or by trained surgeons, the poorer ones in dangerous
back-alley operations involving little more than booze and a dirty
knife. There are also hushed stories of boys being kidnapped and
mutilated against their will.
I wasn't in much of a mood to quiz my two visitors about their life
choices. I just wanted them to leave. I kept on shaking my head and
smiling to take the sting out of my refusal to be shaken down.
Finally, after 20 uncomfortable minutes, they gave up, visibly angry as
they walked out, uttering more words I couldn't understand, which
turned out to be a good thing.
"They talked to me in very dirty language," one of the workers in my
apartment told me afterward.
Since that initial courtesy call, the two hijras have come knocking
once more. So have another pair, no more savory-looking than the first.
Now, I must admit, I take the easy way out: When I see them through the
peephole, I don't answer the door.
Instead, I tiptoe back and huddle quiet as a mouse, praying that
they'll go away, while an annoying voice in my head snickers, "Who's
the eunuch now?" I don't answer that either.