nothing. “See how quickly they turned,” she told him. To this day, Sona could not get over it; she was always replaying some stupid reconciliation scene in her movie-projector mind.
In the hall, the TV was on but no one was watching. Tarana and Anjali were stuck together as usual, glued to each other by a common bitchiness. They whispered all day and night, bringing bits of gossip from all corners of the city and churning them out after adding their own giddy bile. Tarana and Anjali were among the lucky. Their progression from man to hijra had served them well. Their lips were full, their lashes long, and there was hardly a trace of hardness in their faces. As well, their breasts had grown, and for this more than anything, Madhu wished them slow, painful deaths. Anjali had taken hormone injections and was now reaping the benefits. Tarana didn’t need injections. Her breasts just grew with the randomness and unreasonableness of tumours. Madhu too had experienced growth. After her castration, it had surged through her like a beautiful promise and had enervated her. But somewhere downthe line her breasts had failed to fulfill her as she had thought they would. Madhu believed that the reason they had never fully come into their own was her own disappointment. It had stopped them from flowering.
The others had just finished eating dinner. Madhu had already eaten with Gajja, but she did not want to tell them that. Her sisters were jealous of her friendship with Gajja. It was rare for a man to devote himself to a hijra even after their relationship had ceased to be sexual.
Besides gurumai, the only fellow hijra whom Madhu could confide in, the only one she had real feelings for, was Bulbul. She had been Madhu’s friend since the day they met, but she never listened to a single piece of advice that Madhu gave her. Tonight Bulbul was seated solemnly on a chair in front of a mirror, combing her hair. Madhu had told her not to do that in front of the others, because they sniggered at her. As if to prove her point, when the comb became stuck in the frizz of Bulbul’s locks, Anjali pounced on her.
“Traffic jam in your hair?” she asked.
Bulbul was getting old—nearing sixty now—and the more she combed her hair and put makeup on, the easier it was for her to look like a mistake. Madhu had tried explaining this—subtly at first, then with the audacity of a truck horn—but Bulbul just didn’t get it. Her name itself, Bulbul, now seemed cruel. She loved to sing, but the voice that had once been passable was now hoarse, no longer fit for singing at weddings and childbirths. It was more for selling pots and pans at cheap prices. “Comb your hair when it’s wet,” Madhu had told Bulbul a hundred times, but Bulbul was so afraid of catching a cold, she continued to make her hair desert dry. It always looked asthough it had taken the wind as prisoner. She had become fragile and paranoid, but vanity had not left her. She was obsessed with her looks and loved to pose for tourists. She never took money for a photograph. “I will lose my looks if I take money for this face,” she said in earnest, another admission made aloud that had become a catchphrase for the others in her absence.
Bulbul lifted her chin in an attempt to tighten her skin, but the only result was the tautness of another jibe from Anjali. Madhu shot a glare in Anjali’s direction and she cooled down, but it was too late: Bulbul was hurt and made a dash to the toilet. She would urinate, no doubt, but she urinated tears—that’s how sensitive she was.
Tarana and Anjali went over to where Bulbul had been sitting. They smiled naughtily at Madhu, as if to say, “Allow us at least this much.” When Madhu nodded, they quickly grabbed Bulbul’s mobile phone and started going through her photo gallery. These were photos Bulbul had taken of herself, and she thought no one else knew about them. Now even Sona rushed to the phone to join in, and the giggles
In the hall, the TV was on but no one was watching. Tarana and Anjali were stuck together as usual, glued to each other by a common bitchiness. They whispered all day and night, bringing bits of gossip from all corners of the city and churning them out after adding their own giddy bile. Tarana and Anjali were among the lucky. Their progression from man to hijra had served them well. Their lips were full, their lashes long, and there was hardly a trace of hardness in their faces. As well, their breasts had grown, and for this more than anything, Madhu wished them slow, painful deaths. Anjali had taken hormone injections and was now reaping the benefits. Tarana didn’t need injections. Her breasts just grew with the randomness and unreasonableness of tumours. Madhu too had experienced growth. After her castration, it had surged through her like a beautiful promise and had enervated her. But somewhere downthe line her breasts had failed to fulfill her as she had thought they would. Madhu believed that the reason they had never fully come into their own was her own disappointment. It had stopped them from flowering.
The others had just finished eating dinner. Madhu had already eaten with Gajja, but she did not want to tell them that. Her sisters were jealous of her friendship with Gajja. It was rare for a man to devote himself to a hijra even after their relationship had ceased to be sexual.
Besides gurumai, the only fellow hijra whom Madhu could confide in, the only one she had real feelings for, was Bulbul. She had been Madhu’s friend since the day they met, but she never listened to a single piece of advice that Madhu gave her. Tonight Bulbul was seated solemnly on a chair in front of a mirror, combing her hair. Madhu had told her not to do that in front of the others, because they sniggered at her. As if to prove her point, when the comb became stuck in the frizz of Bulbul’s locks, Anjali pounced on her.
“Traffic jam in your hair?” she asked.
Bulbul was getting old—nearing sixty now—and the more she combed her hair and put makeup on, the easier it was for her to look like a mistake. Madhu had tried explaining this—subtly at first, then with the audacity of a truck horn—but Bulbul just didn’t get it. Her name itself, Bulbul, now seemed cruel. She loved to sing, but the voice that had once been passable was now hoarse, no longer fit for singing at weddings and childbirths. It was more for selling pots and pans at cheap prices. “Comb your hair when it’s wet,” Madhu had told Bulbul a hundred times, but Bulbul was so afraid of catching a cold, she continued to make her hair desert dry. It always looked asthough it had taken the wind as prisoner. She had become fragile and paranoid, but vanity had not left her. She was obsessed with her looks and loved to pose for tourists. She never took money for a photograph. “I will lose my looks if I take money for this face,” she said in earnest, another admission made aloud that had become a catchphrase for the others in her absence.
Bulbul lifted her chin in an attempt to tighten her skin, but the only result was the tautness of another jibe from Anjali. Madhu shot a glare in Anjali’s direction and she cooled down, but it was too late: Bulbul was hurt and made a dash to the toilet. She would urinate, no doubt, but she urinated tears—that’s how sensitive she was.
Tarana and Anjali went over to where Bulbul had been sitting. They smiled naughtily at Madhu, as if to say, “Allow us at least this much.” When Madhu nodded, they quickly grabbed Bulbul’s mobile phone and started going through her photo gallery. These were photos Bulbul had taken of herself, and she thought no one else knew about them. Now even Sona rushed to the phone to join in, and the giggles
Similar Books
