Smitha Tumuluru

Riya Behl

Editor

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In Class 5, Ramya, raised as a boy,
began to identify as a girl. 



“In [middle] school I had to wear
shorts and my thighs showed,” she says, “It was embarrassing to be made to sit
with the boys.” Now in her thirties, she wears a red saree and sports long hair, embracing her
identity as a woman. 



Ramya manages a small amman (goddess) temple in Thiruporur town, Chengalpattu district. Her
mother Vengamma is seated on the floor next to her. “While growing up he
[pointing to Ramya] liked to wear chudidaar
[a two-piece women’s outfit], davani
[half-sari] and kammal [ear studs].
We tried to tell him to behave like a boy. But this is who he wanted to be,”
says Ramya’s 56-year-old mother.

Since
the temple of goddess Kanniamma is closed, the quiet allows for this
conversation to flow freely. Members of the Irular community, like this
mother-daughter duo, come here during the day to worship goddess Kanniamma. 



Ramya
was one of four siblings and grew up in this Irular locality. Irulars are
listed as one of the six Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups (PVTGs) in Tamil
Nadu. Her parents, like most others in their community, did seasonal wage work
earning between Rs. 250 to 300 a day working on farms, in construction and
MGNREGA (Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Act) sites. 



“Those days people were not aware of
thirunangais [Tamil word for a
trans woman]. So, when I stepped out of home, people in town would talk behind
my back,” Ramya says, “They’d say ‘he is dressed like a boy but behaves like a
girl, is it a boy or a girl?’ and this would hurt me.”

She dropped out of school in Class 9
and took up daily wage work like her parents. Ramya continued to express her
gender as a girl, and her mother recalls frequently pleading to Ramya, “to
behave like a boy,” worried about what other members of their community would
say about them. 



In her early twenties she suggested
leaving home to live the way she wanted. That’s when her mother and late
father, Ramachandran began to hear her out. “We had four sons. We said let him
be the girl child we never had,” says Vengamma, “Boy or girl, it was our child.
How could we let him leave home?” 



And so, Ramya was allowed to wear
women’s clothing inside their home. Vengamma, however, feared common stereotypes of trans women and told
her daughter, “Nee kadai erakoodadhu,” which meant Ramya must not go
from shop to shop seeking money as her livelihood. 



“Even though I felt like a woman
inside, outwardly others saw only a man with a beard and male features,” Ramya
says. In 2015, she spent all her savings, nearly one lakh rupees, on gender
affirmation surgery and laser hair removal.



It cost her Rs. 50,000 to pay for
gender affirmation surgery at the Mahatma Gandhi Medical College and Research
Institute in Puducherry, 120 kilometres from Thiruporur. Although far and not
free, the hospital was the preferred one as it was recommended by her friend for its gender care team. Free surgeries were offered in select Tamil Nadu
government hospitals across the state. She spent an additional Rs. 30,000 to
remove her facial hair over six sessions at a clinic in Chennai about 50 kms
away. 



Valarmathi, an Irula thirunangai, accompanied her to the
hospital. Moments before her surgery, sitting on the hospital bed, Ramya
realised the enormity of the step she was about to take. She had heard of
fellow trans women whose surgeries did not turn out well, “either the parts
were not removed fully, or they had trouble passing urine.”

Her surgery was a success, and “felt
like rebirth,” Ramya says. “My parents started calling me Ramya only after I
got this operation. Until then they called me by my panthi [dead] name.” 



She
believes that the operation changed the attitude of women around her. They now think of her as one of them and “they even accompany me to the toilet if we go out,” she
says smiling. Ramya is the head of a women’s self-help group called Kaattu malli irular pengal kuzhu with 14
members. 



A
licenced snake catcher, she and her brother supply snakes to the Irular
Snake-Catchers’ Industrial Cooperative Society for anti-venom preparations,
earning about Rs. 3,000 a month for six months a year (non-monsoon months). She
also continues to do daily wage work.



Last
year, her Irular community of 56 families relocated to Sembakkam Sunnambu
Kalvai, a new government housing layout about five kms from Thiruporur town. Ramya
met government officials and helped secure new electricity connections and
apply for identity documents.



Her
civic and political roles are only strengthening – during the last panchayat
elections in 2022, she led protests to secure her community&#39;s voting rights.
Non-Irular members of Sembakkam panchayat had objected to their voting. “Now I
am looking to get special ward status for our hamlet,” she says and hopes to
contest panchayat elections someday to serve her community. “One must live a
life that they like. I cannot lead a false life.”

Across
the state, around two lakh people are part of the Irular community (Census 2011). “For us,
whether it is a boy, girl or thirunangai,
we accept our child and provide for it. But it also depends from family to
family,” she says. Her friends Satyavani and Suresh, both Irulars in their late
twenties, have been married for 10 years. Since 2013, they have lived in a tiny
tarpaulin covered thatched hut in an Irular hamlet in Kunnapattu, 12 kms from
Thiruporur town. 



Ramya
attributes her comfort growing up trans to her community and friends like
Valarmathi. As the duo sit outside Ramya’s home, they share how festivals such
as Aadi thiruvizha, celebrated in the
Tamil month of Aadi, and Maasi magam, an annual congregation of the Irular
community along the Mamallapuram (popularly known as Mahabalipuram) coast, were
spaces where they both felt a sense of belonging. 



They
signed up for dance performances at these gatherings to “dress up like girls,”
says Valarmathi. She would eagerly await the Aadi festival and often wonder why she couldn’t dress like that every
day! 



“We
have been friends since our pant-shirt days,” says Ramya. They met in Class 6,
when Valarmathi lost her mother and moved from Kanchipuram town to
Edayankuppam, an Irular hamlet near Thiruporur town with her father and two
siblings. Both would confide in each other their feelings and worries, and
discovered how they yearned for similar things at a young age.

As
a first born ‘son’, Valarmathi’s gender identity created tension in her
relationship with her father. She dropped out of school in her early teens and ran away from home to join a thirunangai family about 35
kms away. “I lived with other thirunangais
in a house together. We were adopted by a guru or amma [mother], an
older trans woman.”  For
three years, Valarmathi’s job was to visit local shops seeking money in return
for blessings. “I went every single day. It was like going to school,” she
says. She had to turn over all her earnings, a few lakhs as per her estimates,
to her guru. During this time, she
even had to repay a loan of one lakh rupees, allegedly taken in her name by her
guru towards expenses for her gender affirmation surgery and an elaborate
ritual to celebrate it. Unable
to send home money and not allowed to meet her biological family, Valarmathi
sought another guru’s help to leave
this house. She paid a penalty of Rs. 50,000 to the guru whose trans family she left to transfer to a new thirunangai
family in Chennai. 



“I had promised my father to send
money home and support my siblings,” she says. With limited education and work
opportunities available to trans persons, especially those like her in their
late teens, she she did sex work and travelled on suburban trains blessing
people in exchange for money. It was during these train journeys that she met
Rakesh, who was in his late twenties, and working at a shipping yard then.

The couple fell in love, underwent
marital rituals and began to live together in 2021. Unable to find a suitable
house in Thiruporur town, or an owner who treated them with respect, they
initially moved into Valarmathi’s father, Nagappan’s house in Edayankuppam.
While Nagappan shared his home his acceptqnce wasn&#39;t wholehearted and the couple moved out and rented a hut adjacent to his. 



“I
stopped going for vasool [go from
shop-to-shop seeking money]. It was tempting to go clap and earn a few thousand
rupees but Rakesh did not like it,” Valarmathi says, and began to work with her
father at a nearby wedding hall, cleaning utensils and the premises for wages of
Rs. 300 a day.



“She
told me everything about herself. I liked that about her,” Rakesh told this
reporter when they met in December 2022. He supported Valarmathi financially
and emotionally, when she wanted to undergo the breast enhancement procedure
after her earlier gender affirmation surgery. They spent over a lakh of rupees
on the surgery and post-surgery recovery. “All the surgeries were my decisions.
I didn&#39;t do it because others did it. I thought of only myself and how I wanted
to be,” she says. 



During
Valarmathi’s first birthday after their wedding, she and Rakesh went to buy a
cake. On seeing her, the shopkeeper extended some coins, assuming she had come
for vasool. Embarrassed, they
explained their purpose and the shopkeeper apologised. Later that night,
Valarmathi had a memorable birthday in the company of her husband and siblings,
with cake, confetti and laughter. The couple also met her grandfather for his
blessings.



Another
time, she recalls, the police stopped them as they rode late on a bike. She
showed them her thaali (sacred thread
signifying marriage). Contrary to the couple’s fears, the police were
surprised, wished them well and let them pass.

In August 2024, Rakesh moved to
Chennai after securing a government job. “He avoided my calls and never
returned,” says Valarmathi, who travelled to the city after her father
encouraged her to look for him.



“Rakesh’s parents told me politely
to let him go so he can marry someone with whom he can have children. It never
occurred to me that I should register my marriage. I trusted him not to leave,”
she says. Valarmathi has decided not to pursue Rakesh anymore, and has moved
back with her thirunangai family in
Chennai.



Despite these setbacks, she looks
forward to mentoring two young trans girls, from low-income communities, whom
she adopted into her thirunangai
family. One of them wants to become a police officer and Valarmathi hopes to
help her realise this dream.

'I cannot lead a false life'

‘मी खोटं आयुष्य नाही जगू शकत’

'ਮੈਂ ਝੂਠ ਦਾ ਗਿਲਾਫ਼ ਚਾੜ੍ਹ ਕੇ ਨਹੀਂ ਜਿਊਣਾ ਚਾਹੁੰਦੀ'

‘ମୁଁ ମିଛ ଜୀବନ ବଞ୍ଚି ପାରିବି ନାହିଁ’

'నేను అబద్ధపు బతుకును బతకలేను'

‘വ്യാജജീവിതം നയിക്കാൻ എനിക്കാവില്ല’

‘मैं नकली ज़िंदगी नहीं जी सकती’

'ನಾನು ನಾನಾಗಿಯೇ ಬದುಕಲು ಬಯಸುತ್ತೇನೆ'

'હું નકલી જીવન જીવી શકતી નથી'

‘मंय दोहरा जिनगी गुजारे नइ सकंव’

‘हम झूठ के जिनगी ना जी सकीं’

‘பொய்யான வாழ்க்கை நான் வாழ முடியாது’

‘ভুৱা জীৱন এটা মই জীয়াব নোৱাৰোঁ’

‘ঝুটা একটা জীবন বাঁচতে পারব না’

Pomula Bheemavaram

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'I cannot lead a false life'

Ramya is a trans woman, called thirunangais in her Irular community. She says the civic and political agency of trans women like her is growing, and she plans to stand for panchayat elections soon

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