The Hijras

Parini Shroff

The Hayat family expected the hijras before they could even hear them walking down the street. Samiya sat on her bed, rearranging the pillows surrounding her son. She was careful not to wake him, though some selfish part of her wanted his eyes to open so she could see the recognition in them. When she heard the raised voices of her mother-in-law and husband, she got up to close the door.

It had been difficult to put him down for a nap; the circumcision at the hospital had left her son irritable and sore. She was careful to apply petroleum jelly and watch out for bleeding, but Alim’s small, brown face still scowled up at her every time she changed his diaper. It made her feel guilty.

Her husband opened the door. Samiya resisted the urge to shush him. She heard him shifting objects around in the last drawer of his armoire; it annoyed her.

"What are you looking for?" she finally asked. "Let me get it for you." Her eyes were still trained on Alim’s face to make certain he was undisturbed.

"That padlock we bought when we went to visit your parents."

"What do you need it for?" The skirt of her gray housedress made rustling noises as she padded across the room. He was still searching, the sounds deafening.

"Mother doesn’t want to see the hijras."

Samiya stared at her husband. His back was to her as he bent over the low drawer. "But we have to. It’s—" The whisper of scratching cotton caused her to look where Alim slept.

"What about Alim?"

"Ammi doesn’t want to give them money. She says it’s a waste." He straightened his body and looked past her to the nightstand near their bed.

"It’s a question of her grandson and she’s worried about a few rupees?" Her voice was loud even to her own ears.

He sighed. "Don’t start, okay, Samiya?" The small knob on the stand was swallowed by her husband’s palm as he yanked it open, slamming it when nothing of interest could be found. "Where the hell is that lock, haan?" he muttered.

Her arm shot out to restrain him when he tried to continue his search. "You’re going to lock them out?" Beneath her dark skin, she felt her face grow hot. Her mother-in-law thought her too dark, she knew; Mrs. Hayat had said as much when their engagement had been tentatively set.

"No, I’m going to lock us in. Make it look like we’ve gone on vacation. That way, we don’t have to give them money. And they won’t put a curse on us or whatever it is those damn freaks do."

Samiya winced, but let him go. The lock was in the corner of the drawer where she kept her bangles. "Wait," she called after him. "It won’t work." Her damp hands fidgeted with the plain folds of her dress as she walked to him. "They’ll know."

When he spoke, his voice was slow and patient. "How would they know, Samiya?"

Samiya frowned. It had never occurred to her to fear the hijras. "Everyone knows about Alim," she said. "Everyone on the street knows we just got back from the hospital yesterday. There’s no reason we would pick up and leave for a holiday now."

He stopped for a moment, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and then he shrugged. "It’s worth a try."

There was an intense urge to laugh at his words, but she swallowed it, afraid he would dismiss her as hysterical. "What if they do something to Alim?"

"Nothing is going to happen to him."

"You don’t know that. Where is Ammi? I’ll talk to her myself."

"I don’t think that’s a good idea, Samiya. Ammi is already upset with you over what happened."

"What happened?" The words came out fast and loud, something she regretted the moment he turned to face her. Their eyes met and she instinctively lowered her gaze, ashamed. With her head bent, the dark cloth of her hijab shifted to curtain her face from his view. She asked the question again, making sure to use formal second person.

"The kheer."

"Ammi knows I didn’t mean to burn it. I was tired."

"Of course you were," he soothed. The warm skin of his fingers found her bare wrist and she looked down at his touch. Sometimes she hated seeing their skin together like that, his so much fairer than hers. "She will get over it, just give her time."

Lifting her arms, Samiya took off the scarf covering her head. She smoothed the stray strands of her dark hair back into a coil. The doctor had advised her to stay indoors after the labor, but she had put on the hijab in anticipation of the hijras.

Alim slept. Samiya left her husband in the room while she went in search of her mother-in-law. She found Mrs. Hayat in front of the television, watching a black and white film. A song sequence was on, and a man and woman in tattered clothes stood in the rain, sharing an umbrella. Samiya recognized the movie; her own parents had been quite fond of it, and its signature song. Her mother-in-law hated songs. The television was on mute.

"Ammi," she started, "let them sing outside the house. We’ll just let them see Alim and then give them food, not money."

"Why should we give them anything?" The song ended and Mrs. Hayat pressed the mute button again. Rapid dialogue filled the silence of the sitting room and suddenly it felt inappropriate to speak.

"But—"

"I said no, didn’t I?" She thumped her cane on the tiled floor. "Did your mother teach you anything, Samiya? You can’t cook and you can’t treat your elders with proper respect."

Samiya felt her eyes sting. "Haan, Ammi," she said. She murmured an apology before leaving Mrs. Hayat to her film.

Back in the bedroom, Alim was alone still ensconced by a cloud of pillows. She saw her husband walk past the doorway to the sitting room. His hands were empty.

Alim starting screaming the moment the knocking began. At first, the raps on the double doors of the Hayat house were light, inquisitive even. She could hear singing in the background, the disjointed choruses of popular songs.

"Hello," a voice called out. "Congratulations on a baby boy! Mubarakh!" Muffled giggling, followed by bawdy laughter. "We’ve come to see the handsome devil."

By the time Samiya had a wriggling Alim in her arms and walked to the locked door, the banging was furious. Bouncing Alim did not abate his tears and she was certain they could hear his wailing from the other side of the door.

"Oh ho, Hayatsaab, what do you think of yourself? We could have brought your stupid child luck! But now, now he’ll never be able to please a woman. Enjoy this baby boy, Hayatsaab, you’ll never give your wife another one!"

Samiya pressed her face into the curve of Alim’s pliant shoulder. He smelled of talcum powder and milk and need. The music of bangles and anklets ringing reached her ears as the hijras left. She could imagine them, their heavily made-up faces twisting in ugly expressions of anger, their painted lips sneering as they shouted.

She had seen hijras up close only twice. Once, in the middle of her Friday visit to the mosque, Samiya and her mother-in-law had seen three brightly colored salwar-kameez dresses cross the mosque to join the women in the back. They had used the scarf ends of their dresses to cover their heads, but there was no disguising the rough, masculine planes of their features, even behind the carefully applied blush and white powder.

Mrs. Hayat had continued her prayers, bending at the waist to touch her forehead to the marble floor. Though Samiya’s hands had been held together in front of her face, her eyes had been drawn to the three of them. With the hijras’ eyes closed, Samiya found it easier to stare without being rude, to dissect their make-up, hair, and clothes, to see what made them woman, what made them man.

"Samiya," Mrs. Hayat had glared at her before straightening to stand on her feet, tugging Samiya up with her. They walked behind the kneeling women as they left. Mrs. Hayat spoke, her voice loud within the silent walls of the mosque. "Disgusting."

Samiya hurried out of the mosque before the hijras turned to see them. By the time she had collected her shoes and was on the outer steps, there was still no sign of Mrs. Hayat. The older woman came out a moment later, her steps slow and awkward even with the aid of her cane. Samiya looked past her where the three heads, covered in pink and green and white, remained undisturbed, reverently touching the floor of the shrine. Then she turned to help Mrs. Hayat down the steps, her cane clicking a rhythm Samiya was sure the three hijras could hear all the way down.

Now, instead of insulting them, the Hayat family had ignored them. Something told Samiya that the latter was far worse.

That night Samiya attempted to make kheer once more. The coconut milk and rice didn’t scorch this time, but she did not allow herself to feel any pride until the pudding had thickened with the rose water and raisins. She prepared the dessert the way Mrs. Hayat preferred, with slivered almonds and pistachios on top. When it was finished, she stared down at the bowl of white cream; the green and brown ovals of the chopped nuts squinted up at her like lopsided eyes.

Skin slapping against the linoleum floor followed by the tapping of a cane reminded Samiya of where she was. Her hands quickly covered the dish and carried it to the back of the refrigerator. By the time Mrs. Hayat entered the kitchen, Samiya was focusing on the dinner she had started before making the kheer.

Mrs. Hayat took a rolling pin and flattened the small balls of dough Samiya had shaped for the rotis. Samiya slid the perfect circles on an oiled pan over the stove. They worked in silence for a few minutes. Her mother-in-law seemed at ease; Samiya watched the older woman’s hands as she worked. She could see blue-green veins under the nearly translucent skin. Mrs. Hayat wore two thick golden bangles, one on each wrist, and they swung up and down her thin wrists as her body jerked to iron out the dough.

Samiya flipped the rotis back and forth more times than she would have if she had been alone. Careful not to char either side, she spun the dough with twirling fingers around the pan. Her own mother had taught her this way, showing her how to make her fingers dance so fast the heat couldn’t quite catch up.

She stopped to wipe the small pearls of sweat that had formed in the space between her nose and upper lip. Her body jerked a bit when she felt Mrs. Hayat’s hand on her head, the surprisingly cool fingers running down the length of Samiya’s hair, which had become uncoiled and now hung in a loose ponytail. There were five more rotis to cook and Samiya could feel dull aches protesting between her legs and back. Alim would want to be fed soon and she wanted to sit down. She leaned into Mrs. Hayat’s touch as she finished working; it was oddly comforting.

"I can finish here. You go rest."

Samiya’s looked up in surprise. Mrs. Hayat’s superior height demanded she tilt her head back. She remained silent as Mrs. Hayat continued to speak, "Don’t think too much about my being short with you earlier, beti. It’s been such a long time, I’d forgotten how hard it was when I had my Karim." The older woman laughed, the sound dry, as if it could break if pushed hard enough. "He used to howl all day and all night."

Samiya felt her cheeks rise in what she hoped was smile. Mrs. Hayat patted her cheek, the skin of her fingertips was cracked and rough. Samiya thought of the kheer waiting for her in the refrigerator.

"Don’t worry; my grandson will be fine. You understand why I don’t want to encourage those people, don’t you, Samiya? It’s not natural." A shudder rippled through Mrs. Hayat’s thin body. Samiya could imagine Mrs. Hayat’s hollow bones rattling with the movement. She wanted to ask what natural was, but Mrs. Hayat had taken her place over the stove.

"Go lie down. I’ll call you when dinner is ready. If you put your feet up on some pillows, your back will feel better."

Samiya watched the older woman’s back for a moment as she worked, each vertebrae visible beneath the thin fabric of her gray dress as she stooped over. Mrs. Hayat looked very small standing there, even as her gnarled fingers with their wide, swollen knuckles danced with the heat of the pan.

Everyone was asleep when Samiya went back to the kitchen for the kheer. The unsticking of the refrigerator door made a peeling noise as she opened it. When she bent to search for the large bowl, she felt the dark cloth of her hijab brush against her cheek. At first, when she was always home because her pregnancy was so far along, it had been odd going days without feeling her hijab pressed over her skin. Now that she had grown accustomed to being without its weight, wearing it again felt both familiar and awkward.

It was difficult to juggle the dish and Alim, but she managed. He let out a cry when she picked him up, but since it was almost time to feed him, neither Mrs. Hayat nor Karim came looking.

Karim had been sleeping soundly when she had left their bed. He had reached for her earlier in the night, his hand settling its heavy weight on her shoulder in silent question. It was a hot night despite the season and though his skin had felt cool and glowed in the dark room, she had scooted away, making more room for Alim between them.

"Samiya..." he had said with a heavy sigh. His breath touched her cheek and his disappointment was so close, she could have breathed it in.

"Alim wakes up so often as it is. I don’t want to disturb him."

He had nodded and Samiya saw the moonlight from the open window glance across his face before he turned away. She pictured the silver bathing his golden face while she waited. When his breathing was deep and even, she sat up, careful not to shake the mattress.

As she left the house, the keys bounced against her hip. They beat a solid rhythm in time with her steps. The ground was packed earth beneath her slippers until she turned onto the gravel of the main road. A brothel was nearby, across the street from Karim’s favorite paan vendor. Sometimes, when buying the stuffed betal leaves for him, she would also drink coconut water. On one hot afternoon before she knew of Alim’s conception, as she waited for the vendor to cut the head off one green coconut, she had heard the rhythm of anklets behind her. Samiya took hold of the offered coconut and paid the man, fiddling with her straw as she drank.

The hijra was wearing a red sari and wiping away sweat with its cotton material. "One, saab." The voice was deep and feminine all at once.

Samiya drank the coconut water slowly, lowering her eyes to the uneven concrete below her, trying not to be caught staring. Sweat was making her long dress stick to her back and arms. She felt like going home to a cool bath. The hijra’s abdomen was bare. Samiya could see the telltale angry dots of irritated skin; she recognized it. It was how her own arms and legs looked after a particularly rough wax. Her eyes traveled up to take in the arched brows and curled hair as the vendor spoke to his new customer, who was reaching for money within the folds of the sari.

"Don’t worry about it," the vendor said, waving his hand in dismissal. He was half hidden behind the tall stack of coconuts piled on his cart.

"No, no. You’ve already let me have two this week. I insist." Long, dark fingers, their tips decorated with a bright red, kept searching for a change purse.

"It’s fine, memsaab." The vendor had referred to her as a she. Samiya watched the hijra for a reaction to this, but there was none, only a flirtatious smile and a promise to make it up to the vendor if he ever wanted to stop by sometime. Samiya followed the direction of the hijra’s painted finger to a dilapidated, one-story building across the busy street.

Samiya remembered that finger as she recognized the peeling orange paint of the building. The exterior of the wall was lined with many small doors, each colored in fading blue-purple paint. Fingerprints discolored the walls surrounding the doors, making smudged patterns. Samiya picked a door at random to knock on, having to shift a dozing Alim in order to reach the wood. It opened to reveal two people, both in various states of undress. The man yelped at the sight of her in her dark hijab and plain dress, and hurriedly tied the drawstring of his pants. He ran out, clipping her shoulder as he left.

The hijra dressed with languorous apathy; staring at Samiya as she raised the sleeve of her shirt. "I don’t take women; talk to Nargisma if you want someone else."

Samiya stood there, staring at the expanse of brown skin and dark nipple, ashamed at her own curiosity. She shifted Alim in her arms, the bag holding the kheer rustling with the motion. "Where...?"

A minute later, Samiya knocked on another door, this one larger than the others though she could still see flecks of bruise-colored paint falling away from the door. A fair face, older than her own, greeted Samiya. She stared, unable to look away from the green eyes below finely arched brows. Although the age difference between this hijra and Samiya’s mother-in-law could only have been a few years, the face in front of her was nothing like the sagging one of Mrs. Hayat. Kohled eyes rested in a face the color of sun and milk. The nose below those eyes was a bit too sharp, too long to be truly beautiful, but Samiya glanced over its flaws to the mouth beneath it. It was pressed into a firm line, not quite frowning, but a far cry from smiling. The color of that mouth, more than the shape, was what entranced Samiya. Pink. The kind of pink fair babies are when they are warm with sleep.

"Nargisma?" she asked, her throat dry.

She was given a frown. "Nargisma?" A pause, then understanding. "My name is Nargis."

Samiya gestured behind her, to the door she had just intruded upon. "Oh, that—I was told—"

Nargis followed Samiya’s eyes. "Gori? Oh, some of the girls call me 'Ma.' It’s what you get for being the eldest, I suppose. It could be worse, they could call me grandma."

Once Nargis saw the baby sleeping in her arms, she invited Samiya inside. The room was bare except for a mat on the floor and an unplugged fan in a far corner of the room. A small photo of Bahuchara Mata was near the sleeping mat; the goddess perched on a rooster, demanding infertility of all who followed her. Samiya swallowed and turned away to look at Nargis once more.

"My son was just born. He—he..."

"What’s his name?"

"Hayat. Alim Karim Hayat."

"Ah, Hayat. Some of my girls went to your place today. You weren’t home."

Samiya flushed with shame once she heard those last three words and she looked down at the bag hanging from her wrist. The kheer was getting heavy; the straps of the bag dug into her wrist.

"I—I’m sorry, I didn’t...my mother-in-law." Samiya stopped when Nargis stepped forward to take Alim from her arms. The weight of the kheer was not so painful then, and she could feel straps slacken around her hand.

"Beautiful baby," Nargis cooed, cradling the now awake Alim with such gentle hands that for a moment Samiya felt an inexplicable slice of jealousy.

"I thought, perhaps—" Samiya swallowed, prayed for courage and continued, "I thought maybe if I brought him, you could—perhaps..."

Nargis kept one fair hand on the sensitive spot of Alim’s head while peering over his to look at her. "Make sure your baby and husband stay true men?"

The insistent weight of the kheer demanded Samiya’s attention. She lifted it and pulled out the dish, still cold from the refrigerator. "I don’t have money, but I thought... it’s kheer." She was angry at her awkwardness, her inability to give with the same grace that Nargis held Alim.

Nargis smiled and Samiya nearly collapsed in relief. "I love kheer. It’s actually a bad habit; fattening, you know. But I can’t resist anything with pistachios in it." When Nargis moved to take the heavy dish, she put Alim back into Samiya’s arms.

"I’m glad. My mother-in-law likes it with pistachios, too."

There was silence. Why had she said that?

Nargis sighed and let the large bowl rest on the floor near her sleeping mat. Samiya was staring at Alim’s round face so when she felt a warm hand on her upper arm, she looked up. She didn’t flinch and Nargis didn’t remove her hand. The heat of it reached through her dress all the way to her skin.

"Look, Mrs. Hayat." Here Samiya pressed down on the fear that assailed her as she thought of her mother-in-law suddenly appearing. "Your son, and your husband, will be as Allah wishes. It’s all done however He sees fit."

"But you—"

A hand, held palm out, stopped her. "Perhaps Allah has given us power, luck, as you all call it. Good luck, bad luck. Who knows?" Nargis lifted her shoulders in an elegant shrug. "But ultimately, He’s in power—we’re just women." Nargis smiled wryly and Samiya felt her face grow hot.

When Nargis lifted her hand, the space she left on Samiya’s body chilled.

"Your son is beautiful, Mrs. Hayat. Take care of him." Nargis turned to her bed mat and Samiya knew it was time to go.

She said, "I love your name. She was my mother’s favorite actress."

Nargis turned. "Mine, too." She smiled and Samiya saw an uneven row of teeth that warmed her. "When I left home, it was the first thing I did: change my name." She angled her head to the side as if thinking. "Nargis came naturally, somehow. Like I’d waited a long time for it."

This time, it was Samiya who moved closer. It was she who raised an arm to touch the cloth-covered shoulder. She could feel the heat of Nargis’ skin beneath the kurti she wore.

"I love that song..." Samiya started. She could feel Alim’s body between them, pressing against her chest, but it was Nargis’ warmth that traveled through her.

Nargis hummed a few bars and Samiya nodded, her fingers moving from the older woman’s shoulders to her collarbone. The bone there was hard, the skin stretched over it soft with age. She pressed her palm against it for a long moment, willing something, anything to shift between them. When she felt the concavity of Nargis’ chest, she turned away with a prepared apology that came out a whimper. Alim cried out when she crushed him to her, suddenly desperate for the heat of his impossibly tiny body.

He cried all the way home and nothing she did could soothe him. When they crept back into the house, his cries had turned into exhausted whimpers of accusation. She changed him as quietly as she could, finding her way around their room with shadows. He was pink and raw; a tiny bead, proof of his pain, wiped away on her finger as she rubbed petroleum jelly on him before replacing his bandage.

She kissed his head as he fell asleep. His hair was soft and dark. It would be gone in a few days when the head-shaving ceremony was completed, leaving only a prickly stubble as the beginnings of regeneration.

She put her son between her husband’s body and her own and slept.