Orry not sorry: India's trans community reacts to the socialite's use of a slur online

We received no response from Orry’s team by the time this went to press. Under his post, he commented, “Someone said when the mascot betrayed the team”. The post was one more time the trans community was treated as a gag, this time with the endorsement of a prominent queer person. Walking away is a privilege only someone like Orry has. Although he doesn’t make direct declarations of his sexuality, in a birthday post this year, the influencer said, “Being gay was fun but now I am 30 and it’s time for a wife and kids.” His privilege stands so tall that he can just choose to stop being gay. But Sabban is transgender, and always will be. 

Yadnya Ankita now lives with her chosen dad Charles Arthur Williams

Slurs have been weaponised against trans folk across the board. But it hurts especially when it comes from within the queer community. But despite many shared struggles, LGBTQIA+ circles too are riddled with casteism and classism. 

According to a National Human Rights Commission report from 2018, nearly 92 per cent of transgender individuals in India are unable to participate in any form of economic activity, forcing them into poverty. There was no trans recognition in the census up until 2011, and consequently, they were deprived of targeted trans welfare schemes as well. 

The last census in 2011 found that 20.98 per cent of the trans population belongs to scheduled castes. Only 56.1 per cent of trans people are literate, compared to 73 per cent of the total population. All of this goes to show that trans folk are at the fringes of an already marginalised community, vulnerable to  upper-class, savarna men — even within the queer community — punching down on them.

Ipsita Chatterjee

Sabban dreams of being an actor. She points out that the two people being called slurs in the video weren’t trans, but men cross-dressing for a skit. “Men cross-dressing for the jokes causes stereotypes in people’s minds. They think we are nothing but men dressed up as women for attention. And then people like me don’t get offered substantial roles. Because of their mediocre humour,” she says, “He is privileged. He can look down upon us. As hijras, we’re already hated upon by most,” she says, “It’s internalised homophobia. Queer people can sometimes be the biggest homophobes and transphobes! That’s the irony,” she says with frustration. 

Queer-affirmative psychotherapist Ipsita Chatterjee tells us, “Social hierarchies exist within all communities. Even among women, there is a hierarchy of straight women, savarna, and so on. It doesn’t make it okay, but gay people operate within the same flawed, problematic structures as heterosexual people. While they are also navigating systemic oppression, they end up holding on to some of the prejudices that maybe don’t affect them as much.”

Gay people too face prejudice from the mainstream. Oppressing others then becomes a way to conform, to gain acceptance. “When operating from that place of privilege, one holds on to these prejudices to guarantee a place for themself in society,” says Chatterjee, who has her own therapy practice called Thehraav, where she specialises in working with those on the margins. 

Trinetra Gummaraju believes that gay men become transphobic in trying very hard to appease the privileged straight folk around them

“Having said that, I do think we hold those in the margins to a higher standard,” says Chatterjee, referring to how queer people are likely to get more bashed for the same behaviour than straight folk, “The expectation of empathy and solidarity towards one another is greater than it is from someone who is obviously oppressive or in a more privileged position.” 

The case of Orry still remains disheartening. “Some of his fans or some of the [queer] people I’ve worked with say, ‘It’s so nice to now see queer people being accepted in the industry’. There is a generation looking up to him and thinking, ‘There is hope’,” Chatterjee says, “When you have a position of power, you should use it to increase awareness instead of adding to the problem.”

“Like the Ganga changes names as she flows through different regions, my own journey has taken many shapes over the years,” Sabban says, “When I was younger, even I was transphobic. I looked at the hijra community and thought, ‘Why are they like this?’ It was a long journey to understand myself. And then you see someone like this talk about your community in such a derogatory way. It breaks your heart.”
 
Yadnya Ankita was a 19-year-old undergraduate when she decided to transition socially and medically. One of her bullies at college was a cisgender closeted gay classmate. “He misgendered me intentionally. Time and again, he disrespected me, refused to accept my gender. Eventually, I had to drop out of college,” she sighs. 

The alienation extends even to the community events trans people can go to. “Things are getting better now; but before they were dominated by elitist, classist, casteist people. They look down on trans people because we don’t fit their ‘palatable’ definitions.”

“One time at a party, this cis gay man refused to let my trans friend go into the ladies’ room. He said you are a man. You cannot go in there,” she recalls, “But we are women. He caused a scene in front of everyone, talking about her genitals in public. And in the end, the organisers banned my friend from the club. No action against the man who created the issue. And this is supposed to be a LGBTQIA+ affirmative club.”

When the government turns its back on them, trans folk turn to the queer community for support. 

Denying access to queer spaces doesn’t just deprive trans folk of friendship, it removes a much-needed sense of solidarity from their life. It takes away the chance for them to find their “chosen family”.

“Not all gay men are the same. I’ve been living with my chosen dad, Charles Arthur Williams for four years now. He’s been advocating about gay and trans rights. I also have a best friend named Sanchit, a proud and loud cis gay man, who has been a huge support since the beginning of my transitioning,” Yadnya tells this writer with much pride in her voice. 

At 26, she has just quit her corporate job to build something of her own, a step made possible by the support of those who came before her. A little solidarity can go a long way.
 
For 28-year-old Trinetra Gummaraju, actor, influencer, and one of India’s most recognisable trans voices, none of what is unfolding online feels new. Before she stepped into the public eye, Gummaraju was a doctor, someone trained to see structures of inequity systemically. So when she watches queer communities fracture along old caste and class lines, her assessment is clear-eyed, almost clinical.

“Every country has divides of various kinds,” she begins, drawing parallels across borders, “For example, in the American queer movement, Black and brown queer and trans people were always ostracised and disproportionately affected by poverty, the AIDS crisis, unemployment, etc. Cis, white, gay men tended to dominate spaces, often marrying women to be able to put up the façade of the good American man.”

It is a hierarchy that, she points out, maps eerily onto the Indian context too. “The most privileged in our community — often cis gay men, savarna, and elite — play into the ‘good gay’ narrative, often pandering to the wealthiest, even if they are deeply misogynistic and transphobic. You’ll find gay men becoming transphobic themselves,” she explains. “The sentiment is, ‘I’m better than those people, I’m very much like you.’”

In that scramble to appear more palatable to straight, cis society, something far deeper gets lost. “In trying very hard to appease the privileged straight folk around them, it’s sad that many hate themselves — to the point of wanting to erase any part of them that resembles the queer community. Even basic empathy and humanity at times.”

If that sounds harsh, Gummaraju grounds it in the brutal reality of being trans in India today. The gulf between the lived experiences of trans people and the rest of the queer community is staggering. “Trans people in India are one of the most marginalised communities,” she says. “We have one of the lowest literacy, employment, healthcare access, familial acceptance rates. The vast majority are disowned, homeless, selling their bodies for a living. We do not enjoy the privilege of being closeted once we come out, the whole world knows and sees, which means we’re both visible and vulnerable.”

“We’ve seen this sort of alienation play out during Pride parades, for example, both in the West and in India,” she explains. “Trans folk are often sidelined and the whole affair becomes an expensive party pandering to the tastes of the rich.”

There is, she admits, at least a legal starting point. “Thankfully, we have a starting point with the Trans Persons Act, which punishes harassment against us, but its implementation and severity of punishment are questionable.”

She pauses before adding, almost gently, “It is quite sad indeed. I would only hope that we all actively cultivate love and empathy within ourselves, for ourselves. Only when you love yourself and your queerness do you start to see how much self-hatred you’re projecting onto the world.”

Support from within

Vivek Anand

Vivek Anand completed 30 years in Humsafar Trust this year. “But when we were forming Humsafar a lot of friends and well-wishers felt that we shouldn’t bring in trans folk into the conversation because somehow that would send out mixed signals.” That being the fear that hetero-normative people would feel all gay men were transgender. 

In the decades since, Anand has put his fears and biases aside. “I was at a crossroads, my irrational fear over what was right. There cannot be any room for divisive politics in the community,” says the man, who went on to form a chosen family with four trans daughters. “I lost two of them, one to HIV and one to a freak electric shock accident,” he shares. 

Trans women have been at the frontlines of the fight for queer rights, but the community, especially gay men, have yet to fully embrace them, he admits. “But not all gay men!” he insists.

Trans icon reacts

Harish Iyer

Trans activist Harish Iyer says, “We’ve been vilified historically. Such humour cannot be accepted. We are the punchline of every joke. And most times, I ignore it. But this was no accidental slip of tongue. His actions were deliberate. So I felt the need to speak up,” says Iyer referring to his own viral video on Instagram calling out Orry.

But he also tempers his censure with the reminder that queer folk are also just people: “We are not a homogenous community. We have right-wing people and leftists. There are transphobic gay men and misogynistic trans women. Every permutation and combination exists. Why do we assume greatness in someone belonging to a marginalised community? Why should there be more of a burden on the queer community? Haven’t there been cases where I have been called casteist? And I was casteist. So it doesn’t mean if you belong to a certain community, you will be sensitive to all issues.”

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