“Keep that with you and make sure you don’t lose it.”
She says with a slight gentleness in her voice. He says with a slight gentleness in his voice. I am not entirely sure which gender connotation was appropriate. I still don’t.
I am on the Virar fast train during the evening rush hour, possibly the most crowded of the local trains in Bombay. Standing on the side of the door, I hold the pole with one hand while the other rests beside me. Once I settle into that position, there is no turning back. The dense crush of the crowds ensures that I will not be able to move — At least until Bandra.
The train stops at Grant Road, and for the ignorant, it is the ideal destination for local brothels and happens to have a very flamboyant red-light area in Mumbai. Speaking from experience, not many women get off on this stop.
But on this day, a few women get on. Not women, however, but a couple of transgenders. They are more notably called chhakas or hijras in India. A tight-knit community, they stay in groups and board the trains in groups of ones or twos begging for money. They are usually very aggressive and would not hesitate to touch you, tease you, shame you — Anything to make sure you want to get rid of them quickly, even if it means parting with a couple of bucks.
The houses operate a bit like street gangs — they fight over territory for begging and prostitution and settle disputes among themselves, sometimes violently, in the shadows of train stations and slums. Most live and spend their years in small, airless shanties with the smell of feces wafting through cracks in the walls.
As they make their way through the crowd, the first thing I hear someone shout out — ‘Oh my God, the hijras are here.’ Then there is a nervous pause, then laughter. They bless each person and in turn expect them to give them some cash. It is usually considered a tradition when giving blessings or gift money with a 1-rupee coin.
As the hijras spread out on the train and walk through the flock of the regular commuters to beg for money, I see one of them dressed in a very bright pink saree and flowers in the head approach in my direction.
The two of them standing beside me are trying hard to avoid them. The eunuch places a hand over their head and then extends the same hand in the gesture of asking for money. The men look left, right, downwards — Anywhere but towards the eunuch. Semi-ashamed.
It’s the day that I have got my salary and I feel — extravagant, but just slightly. I fish into my wallet to take out a one-rupee coin and then on an impulse, take out a ten-rupee note instead. Giving just a tenner is considered inauspicious in my circles — Usually, it’s in multiples- eleven, twenty-one, fifty-one, a hundred and one. As I fish in my pocket for a one-rupee coin, I pick out a two-rupee coin instead. Whatever, I think. This is better than just the ten.
He sees me fishing into my wallet and slows down waits. As I close my wallet, I feel a hand on my head and I extend the money which he takes with immense gratitude, touching the money to both eyes before putting it in his blouse.
As I turn back towards the door, I feel someone pat my shoulder.
I look back at him and he has a one-rupee coin that he is holding under his teeth as he adjusts his blouse and saree.
He places the coin in my hand and says with some degree of confidence and unknown authority — “Keep that with you and make sure you don’t lose it.”
I thank him for that gift. It’s just a one-rupee coin. You probably cannot even buy some candy with it but this is not a transaction. Instead, this is a connection — From one human being to the other, both have their own set of unfortunate circumstances, both have their own compulsions, a stomach to feed and an ego to bear and between us is a one-rupee coin that connects us, that transcends the realms of money and differences, gender and acquaintances.
Bandra station is fast approaching and the crowd is getting antsy to alight. Bodies are aligned, inquiries are made of the person ahead of you — “Are you going to get down at Bandra”. If the answer is yes, the body behind you aligns himself to your position, trusting you to ensure his or her getting down on the station. God forbid if you are standing close to the door and are not planning to get down. A series of curses ensure as you are told to get behind. If you are not getting down, you have no right to take up that space. There are unwritten rules about a Bombay train — Rules that one is expected to know, understand, assimilate, and adhere to.
As I stand back, I hear a shuffle behind me, and then the sound of a tight resounding slap rings through the train. As I turn around, I see the eunuch tucking in the corner of his saree with one hand while holding the collar of a twelve-year-old boy with another. His other hand is holding my wallet.
It doesn’t take me long to realize what has just happened. The pickpockets usually hold off until the train is about to stop. Sensing his opportunity, the teenaged boy who is selling snacks on the train had made his move. However, he could not get through the eunuch who after years on the same commuter line is probably aware of the location of a single roach that rides this train. He knew.
As the crowd turns towards the terrified boy, he senses imminent danger. Bombay crowds are notorious for beating up pickpockets. Every passerby gets to kick them, punch them until they are a heap of bloodied mass, lucky enough if a passing cop dares to take them.
“I will f*** anyone up if they touch him”, the eunuch growls and the crowds take a step back. The accountant, the software engineer, the geek — They find their strength in numbers. As singular entities, they are just what they are — Cowardly.
He lets go of the boy as the train stops at Bandra. The mood suddenly shifts and everyone gets back to alighting the train, shifting positions, or grabbing an empty seat. The boy is quickly forgotten.
“You need to be careful. Thank God I was there!”, he turns towards me and says with a sudden gentleness that belies his previous ferocity.
I didn’t have very many words for him and all I could say was, “Yes! Thank God you were there.”
As the train starts back up, he turns around and gets off as I see the pink apparition grow smaller into the distance.
I will never see him again.
But I keep that 1-rupee coin close –
With me as a reminder that it just takes a single rupee to get to know a golden soul.
Shortly afterward, I notice the following advertisement in the “Services” section of the classified ads in a Bombay paper:
“Outstanding Dues??? Take It Easy!! Now Available with UNIQUE RECOVERIES: A Trained Group of Educated Eunuchs Who ensure Speedy Recovery from defaulters. Inquiries invited from individuals, banks, corporate sector”.
A Matunga East address is given, and a phone number.
On a whim sitting in the office the next day I call.
It has already been disconnected.
