Far from the pulsing streets
of Mumbai, Bangalore, and Delhi, the India I have grown so accustomed to gives
way to a vast periphery of rice paddies and remote villages.
With
no doors, no seatbelts, Bhangra crackling through the speakers, and cows and
potholes the only traffic regulations, the yellow tuk tuk I’m riding in jolts
toward my destination and one of the greatest anomalies in India — a
transgender temple. I’m travelling with three friends, and we have heard and
discussed many stories about this distinct community. The hijras, best translated as transgender people, face great
discrimination in India despite the appreciation for sexual diversity expressed
in sacred ancient texts, such as the Ramayana and Kama Sutra. Hijras are marginalized from most Indian
societies and often face brutal discrimination.
I
have been living in India for almost a month studying religious traditions, but
this issue rattles my curiosity like my first foray into the slums of Mumbai. I
grasp for a glimpse of the future, but only eccentric strangers wrapped in
bright saris, shunning my stares and praying before opulent statues, come to mind. My preconceived
imaginings are usually far from the truth, as I well know, so I push these
thoughts aside and bounce along to the Bhangra music.
Finally,
the tuk tuk sputters to a stop. We have reached the village of Koovagam,
perhaps the most remote place I have been to and one that is unfrequented by
foreigners. The mat of dust beneath our feet yields piles of hay and thatched
huts, but no eccentric strangers await us. Instead, an open-air temple painted
in a bright turquoise green stands empty, but for Vishnu, Shiva, and Brahma
gazing regally from their thrones atop a bright blue terrace.
I
barely conceal a smirk as I realize my desperate, unparalleled hope (just
minutes earlier) for the strange and the shocking. If truth be told, every
prickly notion dissipates — apart from the god Iravan scowling from the wall of
a temple pillar. Eyes widened, a tilaka or “third eye” peering from his
forehead, severe canine teeth bared beneath a heavy mustache, and three white
arms ornamented in gleaming bangles, he seems to demand, “Why are you here?”
But
soon enough we are saved from Iravan’s gaze, as a thick Indian accent belonging
to the temple priest approaches us. “Wel-come,” he says. He adorns us with
thick jasmine garlands, as is the tradition in most Hindu greeting ceremonies,
and chants a prayer that we don’t understand in words or spirit. But I do know
one thing: this temple is a refuge—not just for hijras or non-hijras or locals or foreigners — but
for those who seek.
For
several glowing minutes, my friends and I witness the temple priest’s rituals,
which are neither thrilling nor discomforting. I am filled with marvelous disillusionment,
and I smile up at god Iravan as I finally I make my way back to the rickshaw.
