Roja

I was just wondering today, while having my evening coffee. I have not been doing much lately, especially so late in the day. Life has become more self oriented. My focus has mostly been on myself, unlike before.

I sat by my window and looked outside. The street was unusually quiet. My street is usually busy and noisy, with children playing, men standing around their bikes discussing sports, women chatting, and people out on their evening walks. Today, perhaps because it was Sunday, the streets were almost empty. A deep silence had filled the whole area.

I saw only one person outside, a flower vendor sitting there alone and idle.

Every day, on my way back from my evening walk, I pass this lady who sells flowers. Her jasmine is always special, fresh and carrying such a beautiful fragrance. I usually acknowledge her with a smile, almost as if marking my attendance for the day.

Today, I thought of going over and having a small chat with her.

So I made a cup of coffee for her and went downstairs.

She was genuinely happy and surprised when I told her that I had come down to talk to her. She gave me such a warm reception and brought a stool for me to sit on. When I stretched out my hand to give her the cup, I could see the happiness in her eyes.

She smiled and said, "This is the first time someone has made coffee for me."

I asked her who all were at home.

She took a sip of her coffee and spoke softly.

"I live by myself. I have no family. I ran away from home when I was eight because of my aunt's torture."

I had gone to her simply to keep her company for a while, thinking it must be a lonely day for her. I was not expecting her to open up to me, and certainly not expecting to hear such a painful story.

I thought she might tell me about her children or, at most, a husband who drank too much.

She remained silent for a while, and I felt I had to break the silence.

I asked, "Are you not married?"

She looked into my eyes, and there was something in her expression that immediately made me wish I could take the question back.

She replied, "Who will want to marry a woman who has nothing except flowers that bloom every day just to help her satisfy her hunger?"

Before I could say anything, she continued.

"I was a fool. I fell into men's traps many times until I realised that some of them only see a woman as someone who can satisfy their lust."

"I was in Madurai until I was 35. Then I moved to Chennai to escape the tag they were trying to push me into, that of a whore."

I felt terrible hearing this.

"I cannot live without dignity, even in poverty."

I took her hands in mine and pressed them gently as a gesture of support. 

I wanted to change the topic, but she continued.

"I found this way of earning for myself and fighting poverty. I used to pluck flowers from people's gardens. Many times, they would chase me away. Later, I started selling them to make enough money for tea. Now I sell garlands and at least earn enough to have three meals a day."

I asked her, "Over all these years, didn't anyone offer you a job, even as domestic help?"

I asked because she had been living here for so many years, on the same street, doing the same work. Surely, the people around her must know her well.

She smiled and said, "Darling, I am a known transgender woman in this locality. Nobody wants me working in their homes, but they need me whenever they want blessings for something auspicious."
I wondered what is the crime in being a transgender.

I asked her why she did not move somewhere near a temple or a main road where she might get more customers.

She explained that she would have to pay rent, or find a place near a temple through a yearly auction, and that was not easy for her. She also said she did not want to move to the roads because she felt she had to be loyal to the people who came looking for her.

I was amazed by her sense of sincerity.

Then she said, almost casually, "After all, I have no liabilities. I only need to earn enough each day to feed myself."

People often do not respect or even consider transgender people on humanitarian grounds when they are struggling and in need. Yet the same people shamelessly go to them for blessings when they buy a new car, move into a new house, or welcome a baby into the family.

This lady, who prefers to call herself Roja, left me with much more to think about than I had expected from a simple evening conversation.

She made me question why we become so attached to worldly comforts and possessions. Perhaps life is not really about how much we have, but about how we choose to live with what we have.