They entered the first class compartment of the local, flying in like birds of bright plumage, to settle down on the floor of the vestibule. Dressed as they were in bright, well cut Indian clothes which were colourful, and tastefully put together, it was obvious they were off on a outing.

In sharp contrast to the women who were seated inside the compartment, each of whom was immersed in her mobile phone, these women were in high spirits; their voices ringing out as they talked animatedly among themselves.

It was only their voices, deep, and manly that gave away the fact that they were transgenders.

When the crowds in the compartment thinned as the train approached South Mumbai, they came in to take their seats. It was heartening to see how carefully each of them had put her look together. The make-up was clever, applied with almost a professional touch of invisibility, only the glow on their skins gave away any intimation of artifice. The hair was in place, neat and stylishly cut.

There was an obvious pride in the way they carried themselves, women who had freed themselves of a body that did not belong to them, and found their true persona. Often they would let the dupatta that they wore float away, and let the deep neckline of their clothes display ample cleavage.

Harsh truth

Yet behind all the blandishments of their freed state, the truth could not be denied. Of a harsh childhood, of coming to terms with their sexuality, of having to swim against the current of moral policing and societal norms. What battles must each of them have fought, battles both emotional and physical, to reach where she was today, able to dress as she pleased, and flaunt the body that she had gained after who know what travails.

And then there is the fact that as women, who are not quite women, for motherhood is an impossibility; their hearts must yearn for a nest to live, nurture and be nurtured in. Even as they give in to sexual abuse by the very society that sidesteps them in the open, pretending they can have no common cause with them.

Neither education nor activism can guarantee them a good life. Nor is a marriage of love any insurance against abuse and abandonment. Not long ago, Dr Akkai Padmashali, a transgender who married for love, adopted a child and built a home in Karnataka, where her marriage was registered, walked out of her marriage where abuse had become the norm. Like any woman, she suffered silently at first.

The very man who had wooed her, and married her with mangalsutra, ring, and by saying qubool thrice, to respect all religions, assaulted her when drunk, harassed her for dowry, and physically hurt the child they had adopted. Though an activist, Padmashali put up with it as long as she could because she had experienced the ‘brutality of the system’ and did not want to risk going to police authorities in a small town where prejudices were stronger than in cities.

Despite awareness, the change towards acceptance is slow. And it will take India decades before empathy and understanding about transgenders becomes the norm. Till then, despite their self-assurance and their bravado, trapped between rigid gender walls, they travel sitting in the vestibule of life.