Suvajra and the Eunach

Number Six

He often sat on a doorstep in the lane by the level crossing, his tanned face and bob-cut hair reflecting the gold and black of his sari. In a way he was quite attractive – if you like that sort of thing. Perhaps I should say, “She was quite attractive,” but the trouble is I never know how to refer to them, these ‘Number Sixes,’ or Hijaras, as they are more properly called.

Whenever I passed I tried to not look. Partly I didn’t want to be seen by others to look at him…her? Partly I didn’t want to be seen by him to be looking. But due to quite irresistible forces, only some of which were unconscious, I was always aware whether she was sitting there or not and I could no more help the furtive glances than I could help scratching an itch.

She was a sad sort of figure I thought. Lonely and isolated. I never saw her with anyone. She never talked to anyone. I saw no one talking to her. And I never saw her ‘do the rounds’ – all that hand-clapping stuff they do, demanding money under threat of social embarrassment. I often had to pass his doorstep in the lane… her doorstep… on the way to the market or the station. And the rickshaw stand was in the same lane.

Once I came down from the local train and went to the rickshaw stand. It was the hottest part of the day and therefore the slackest time. Most drivers were sound asleep, curled up in the passenger seats and I had to wake the driver of the front rickshaw. He was a young guy, maybe in his early twenties. Reluctant and bleary eyed he dragged himself into consciousness. I sheltered from the blazing sun under the canopy of the back seat while he poured water over his head and shook himself like a dog coming out from a dip. He swirled water round his mouth and spouted an arc across the lane and then tried to bring his unruly hair under control. He was a bit of a lad, a young rogue, you know, but with a likable face – that sort. And these rickshaws are the shared rickshaws. They never go off with less than three passengers, not unless you pay a bigger fare that is, and at this time of day one was never certain of a full compliment.

A woman in a dark sari appeared by the rickshaw and I was glad. In she came and sat next to me. But it was him. Yes, him…her…the ‘Number Six’. It was the first time I had seen her close up. Who knows if she had been an attractive lad or not? It was hard to tell. Shaved she was but also with face powder, eyeliner, plucked eye-brows and dark red lipstick. A few light gold chains hung round her neck and glass bangles on her wrists completed the picture. Yes, it was a young man dressed as a woman.

What to do? I had never before been in a rickshaw with one of them. What will people think? Maybe they will think he is with me? Maybe he will threaten me for money. I looked anxiously up and down the lane for another passenger. None. What to do?  Just wait. Play it cool.

The driver and she passed some comments back and forth. It seemed to be a mix of insult, banter and flirtation. At least flirtation on the part of the young driver. He received a great fisted thud on his back. Yes, if there was ever any doubt it was now settled…’she’ was a young man dressed as a woman. The driver just laughed and turned to me,  “This is my wife!” he said. I laughed. The driver stepped out of the rickshaw and stretched, deliberately exposing his bare smooth midriff. A soft, gentle line of dark hair traced a path down from his stomach into low slung jeans. What a flirt I thought, an outrageous flirt!  She nudged me. Her face expressed disgust at the bare midriff. I laughed to myself.

Another passenger arrived, a smart young man and, seeing who was in the back seat, backed off as if he had just seen a poisonous serpent. He tried to share the driver’s seat but Flirt was having none of it. The new passenger screwed his face up and gingerly let himself onto the seat next to her. Anyone who has ever shared a rickshaw will know what it means to have three people on one seat. Three is an intimate number in a rickshaw and there is no getting away from it. Knees, hips, buttocks and arms and shoulders all touch. Although she was the picture of decorum and Flirt behaved himself and attended to his driving, the new passenger’s face remained screwed up.

“Last stop!" Flirt called out, "‘Water Tanky’ ”
We debouched and the other passenger paid his fare and left as quickly as possible. I tried to pay my five rupees but the driver demanded double.
“Ten?”
“Yes, five rupees for you and five rupees for her!”
“No way!”
“No. This is standard. You have to pay ten.”
They both insisted and were set for an argument. Other passengers I was told had to pay for the ‘Number Sixes.’ They always did!  No doubt they did.   I refused point blank. I put five rupees on the driver’ seat.
“She is your wife,” I said, “you pay for her!” and I walked off with s smirk on my face!

Just a little down to road I caught up with the other passenger. He was still clearly rattled.  “Bloody Hell!” he said. “Bloody, bloody, bloody Hell!”

He was a young man, the vicar of one of the local Christian Churches.  He was so very rattled that it set me thinking about his reaction, his Christianity, and the bible.  It was almost as if today, Adam and Eve and the Serpent had in the mind of the vicar been combined into a potent and threatening mix in the person of this sad young Eunach.

“Bloody Hell!” it came again.