In the end

I see these worn out faces, Dried and some still wet

Chocking shrieks of loss, Numbness in their voice

Not bonded by blood Or show of any pretence, But

Delicate colored strings, Evoking a stronger bond

Smell of spirit and sanitized floors, suffocating and stifling. The hall was full of saddened faces; despaired and disheartened. Some had hope, and for a few, it was buried a long ago. Patience, time, emotion, space, everything was at a stand-still. There were long queues, and the sitting area was crowded by patients and their relatives. Nauseated. Yes, nauseated was I in the midst of these people who were either hanging on to hope, or were preparing for the journey of letting go. Life and death had a thin line dissolving every minute. And, here were ‘her’ people, sitting in one corner of the hall, waiting for her body. She was a partner to one, guru to a few, leader to many and a friend for a lot of those who were waiting there to say their last goodbyes.

I knew her for only four years, and have known her only in her ‘feminine’ form. I am told, she was a handsome man once, but in my memories she stays forever, in her dark colored, well-draped saree, red vermilion and black beads around her neck, introducing her partner and blushing while showing her wedding pictures on her partner’s phone. Today, she was gone, and gone were the hopes with which she wanted to live. It was just before she went completely unconscious she mentioned that she wants to get discharged soon, and get back to work. She looked thin, had lost a lot of weight. She even felt embarrassed asking someone to help her when she wanted to pee each time. Her medical file next to her bed had ‘HIV positive’ written in red. I smiled, I was working on HIV-based stigma in hospital and here was I witnessing it with my friend alongside.    

Today few of her family members were there at the hospital, busy working on changing her name. It was just not an administrative issue, but one beyond that. They were snatching away her feminine identity from her in her last ritual, the one she fought for her entire life. We all stood there talking to her Guru and gharana to let the family take her body, not for her brothers but for her old mother who had lost her son. She had had a hard life, working towards realizing her own femininity, dealing with her health issues, the alienation from family and finding love to fill this void. And today, the survivor, her mother, who was left behind, seemed to be our only concern. The body was lying in the mortuary, and her identity was once again getting changed, but this time not at her will.

The body finally arrived, and people waiting rushed towards it. This time there were no silent tears, but howling cries echoing everywhere. Everyone was hurrying to take  one final look. They were moving the body to her home, and hijras were not welcome there. The family found it inappropriate to have people like her, who stayed with her through-out, who loved her for who she was, at her funeral rite. The community who stood by her for years, was today touching her feet and letting her go to her blood-related family. Few of them also agreed to wear their masculine attire to attend the funeral. The narrow street outside the hospital from where the body was to be taken was crowded by people who were there to say their goodbyes. The onlookers looked surprised and amazed at this sight- love and despair could be felt from a distance.

I did visit her home and attend the funeral. The neighborhood had put a condolence message on a black-board with her photograph in short hair and a male name. Her journey as a woman which began years ago against the odds, still ended with her identity being denied even at her death.