‘We’re asked, What’s between your legs?’

Christina Evers and Rochelle Pinto

A couple of months ago, Christina Evers was stopped from entering the ladies' washroom at Kalyan station by cis women. "‘Go to the gents washroom', they yelled at me. I shot back: ‘To get raped?'" recalls Evers.

Accessing public spaces has always been a challenge for trans women in India. Cis men fetishise and/or brutalise them, cis women don't accept them as one of their own, and even the cliques within the queer community don't let them in.

In 2023, Evers moved from West Bengal to Mumbai, where she is now a management executive at Godrej. She recalls how she was advised to stay in the closet when she was looking for a home. "They told me I didn't look like a trans woman and said that if I didn't tell anyone I was one, they'd consider renting me a house. I told them, ‘It has taken me years to come out and accept myself as a trans woman. I will not hide who I am.'"

Though things were harder in Kolkata, Evers says she did not expect the hardships to follow her when she moved here. One of the things that surprised her was the dirty looks from women at mall bathrooms. There are times when female security guards will conduct a "security check" before allowing her to enter the washroom - yet another exercise in stripping her dignity. "Even during the security check, ‘Aap idhar jao, aap udhar jao' (go here, go there)," she explains. "I tell them, ‘I am a woman. Please treat me with respect.' Still, the female security guard insists on checking me'," she adds.

Even in the rarefied atmosphere of the AC local train, the daily commute feels like an endurance test. "In a crowded train, a cis woman once said to me: ‘Aap kyu touch kar rahe raho' (Why are you leaning on me and touching me?). I told her ‘Jo aapke paas hai mere paas bhi hai'. On long-distance trains, once they figure out we're trans, men get handsy. They think they have the right," she adds.

Which is why when someone like Orry (aka influencer Orhan Awatramani) uses transphobic slurs as a punchline, it legitimatises treating both trans men and women badly. "It feeds into this hetronormative narrative that lets shun trans persons - especially transwomen," says Evers.

It has only been 1.5 years since Rochelle Pinto, a 28-year-old HR executive, has "completely embraced" her trans identity. But this self-acceptance has come at a cost, as she gave up the privilege that came with being a cis man, and open herself to the harassment that comes with being a trans woman. "On a daily basis I get uncomfortable stares, catcalled by men. There is a notion that ye toh kinnar hai, kya kar legi? [She is trans, she can't retaliate]."

"Being stared at continuously, right from the minute you step out until you come back home gets to me to an extent that in some days I don't want to step out," she says. Even dating is an ordeal. "If a cis man matches with you, the first thing he asks is usually ‘What's between your legs?' Or ‘Have you had surgery?' They don't even engage with you as a human being. I am so sick of it," she adds.

The other extreme is when people revere trans women as deities because of the cultural context of Ardhnareshwara (Shiva and Parvati fused as one). Pinto relates an incident when she stopped for dinner at a small family-run hotel in Dombivli. "The family was very welcoming. I paid the bill but just when I was about to leave they brought out a thali and did my puja. I was so surprised. They forced R50 on me, and put my sandals on for me," she says.

"It was very uncomfortable. I understand their reverence for the hijra community, I also wasn't comfortable going through an ‘elevated experience'," she adds.
The trans community is an ubiquitous part of Mumbai, but that doesn't necessarily mean this is a trans-friendly city. Maybe it's time to educate ourselves, Mumbai?