Savitha, Sangeena, Sathana, Geetha, Rossi, Seethal and Srija are part of the transgender communities in Pondicherry and Tamil Nadu. They are called ‘Thirunangais’, or ‘daughters of God’. India recognised the existence of a third gender in 2014 and decriminalised homosexuality four years later. These advances seemed to suggest that Indian society was on the cusp of change, albeit gradual, but the day-to-day realities still faced by many Thirunangais tell a very different story. Shunned by their families, often beaten, raped and excluded from the labour market, they have to rely on begging, sex work and the bonds of solidarity that unite their community to survive. They are feared and revered in equal measure, ascribed as they are by Hinduism with powers of benediction, healing and fertility. They occupy a paradoxical position that is a source of fascination for many.
As a French photojournalist of Indian origin, Jennifer Carlos says she has been intrigued since childhood by the beauty of the Thirunangais and the courage with which they defy expectations in one of the world’s most patriarchal and conservative societies. In September 2021, she decided to go and meet them and immerse herself in their community for six months, to bear witness to their marginalised lives. The women agreed to be photographed as they went about their day-to-day activities, caught between hardships and hopes of a better future.
“¡Dame unas monedas y serás bendecido!”. Savitha, Sangeena y Sathana no pasan desapercibidas cuando piden limosna a los transeúntes en las concurridas calles de Pondicherry. Al cruzarse con ellas, hay hombres que desvían la mirada, otros se acercan a ellas para deslizarles un billete entre las manos.
Transgender women begging and blessing passers-by in the hope of getting some small change is an everyday sight on the streets of Tamil Nadu’s major cities. Taller and more provocative than the other saried figures, they are called ‘Thirunangais’. This is the term used in South India to refer to people assigned as male but who do not identify as such, more commonly known as ‘Hijras’ in the north of the country.
Criminalised by the British colonialists in India at the end of the 19th century, the stigmatisation of eunuchs and transgender people continued into the post-colonial era. Once employed by the Maharajas to guard harems, they now live on the margins of society, despite the Indian Supreme Court’s recognition of a ‘third gender’ in 2014.
Savitha, de 30 años, jamás ha logrado encontrar trabajo, a pesar de haberse graduado como técnica en análisis médicos. “No trabajes, eres hermosa y si satisfaces mis necesidades será suficiente”, le dijo el jefe de un laboratorio durante una entrevista de trabajo. Lleva mendigando en las calles de Pondicherry desde los 18 años. Consigue “entre 300 y 500 rupias al día” (unos 4 a 6 euros).
Savitha has tried and failed to find work on many occasions. She is one of many. Although often qualified, the members of this community are not given the opportunity to put their skills to work. Society assigns them a position that they simply cannot escape. It was the British colonialists that turned them into pariahs. Article 377 of the Indian Penal Code, criminalising “unnatural” consensual sexual conduct and classifying transgender people as a “criminal tribe”, remained in force until 2018.
De noche, Savitha bendice a un hombre en la playa de Pondicherry a cambio de 15 rupias (20 céntimos de euro). Para la religión hindú, las personas transgénero son descendientes de la diosa de la fertilidad, Bahuchara Mata, lo que les otorga poderes sanadores y de protección, pero también la capacidad de lanzar hechizos.
They are both rejected and respected for their power of benediction, known as ‘shirvan’. This is achieved through the choice to prioritise spiritual life over sexual life, and may involve emasculation. ‘Nirvan’, as this ritual is called, refers to nirvana – a state of serenity and the absence of desire. Despite living on the margins of society, they nonetheless have a strong presence in the cultural imaginary.
Thirunangais and Hijras are therefore faced with a paradox laden with fascination, between a position of divine purity and impurity, given their reliance on begging and sex work to make a living.
Ceremonia del ‘nirvan’, que celebra la vaginoplastia de 11 miembros de la comunidad, en octubre de 2021, en Pondicherry. A la cabeza de la comunidad local, Seethal, de 45 años (en primer plano), pide a cada una de las participantes que traiga un sari nuevo y 3.500 rupias. Durante la velada, las participantes bailan mientras lanzan al aire parte del dinero recaudado para las “recién nacidas”, como las llama la comunidad.
Seethal started to question her identity while studying at university. Confused, she made an appointment with a doctor in the hope of finding some answers. The doctor, using the pretext of wanting to examine her, raped her. Later, when she finally decided to tell her family about her transgender identity, her parents tried to burn her by dousing her with gasoline. She managed to escape just in time.
Some families choose to remain silent and in denial, making their child carry the burden of being “abnormal”. Seethal’s hope for the future is that the process of change will start within the family. “They have to accept us, because we don’t belong to them; our bodies belong to us.” Most of the adolescents who have identity issues run away from their families and end up on the streets. They find themselves having to build a new identity, in a country where individual identity is based on the family structure, and the institution of marriage.
After leaving university, Seethal soon realised the extent of the abuse suffered by members of the LGBT+ community. One night, after witnessing a transgender sex worker being assaulted by two customers who were refusing to pay, she realised that there were other LGBT+ people in Pondicherry and that they had no one to turn to for protection. She decided, with the Sahodaran Community Oriented Health Development (SCHOD) Society, to start organising group discussions in a secure space, creating a private and safe environment for people like herself.
Rossi, de 27 años, trabaja como prostituta a lo largo de la avenida Semmandalam Kurinjipadi de Cuddalore, como en esta foto tomada en febrero de 2022. La prostitución es ilegal, pero la corrupción policial sigue siendo rampante y adopta formas distintas para estas trabajadoras del sexo, sobre todo mordidas.
The Supreme Court has declared that transgender people should be treated as a third gender category with specific rights in terms of access to education and employment. In 2017, another Supreme Court decision stated that privacy is a fundamental right and that the sexual orientation of any individual should be confidential. These rulings offer a basis for contesting the socioeconomic discrimination suffered by transgender people, especially in the area of health care. Despite these advances, their day-to-day lives have not changed and they cannot always turn to India’s corrupt authorities to complain.
Savitha ha seguido a este cliente habitual hasta Madukkarai, a unos 400 kilómetros al oeste de Pondicherry: “Me trata bien, es amable conmigo, así que le cobro menos cuando necesito dinero rápido”. Esta vez, sólo le cobró 300 rupias (4 euros), muy por debajo de su tarifa habitual de 1.500 rupias (18 euros) por servicio.
Transgender women rarely manage to develop a healthy romantic relationship, as they are seen as sex objects. Women who make a living from sex work are even more likely to be victims of violence, not only in public places, police stations and prisons, but also in their own homes. An estimated 70 per cent of transgender people in India are sex workers. HIV/AIDS is taking a heavy toll, with infection rates among this population group estimated to be a hundred times higher than the national average.
Savitha sueña con cambiar de vida y dejar de prostituirse: “Mi mayor deseo es que la gente deje de tener miedo a las personas transgénero: al fin y al cabo, yo fui un hombre y me convertí en una mujer, así que puedo entender a ambos, también yo tengo sentimientos. Quiero que la gente deje de vernos como enfermos mentales o animales”.
For many Thirunangais, being forced to live in a community is not always easy. They are caught between taboos, labels and their own aspirations. “I want people to understand that we are individuals who want – just like everyone else – to live our lives and be independent,” says Savitha. They often have to live with major traumas, which are specific to each transgender woman’s story, but they develop a resilience that enables them to remain hopeful and keep battling on, day after day.
