content warnings
death, harrassment
[3261 words]
I marched to the rear end of the Digha-bound public bus from Kolkata. Finding Kabita sitting alone by the window, I plonked on a slightly holey seat beside her. The men who were taunting Kabita, calling her a half-and-half, fell quiet in my presence.
A cool morning breeze of November blew against my face. I checked my ID card from Swanirbhar, the rural women’s livelihoods NGO I had joined a month ago. We were taking women to see the sea.
‘I was waiting for you,’ Kabita said in her deep voice. Her painted-red lips were almost enough to distract one from the light stubble on her chin. I offered her a tamarind lozenge. Only seventeen members had gotten permission from their families to be away from home for three days. Kabita was the first to confirm her attendance.
Hawkers hurriedly ferried their wares through the windows until the bus finally rumbled with all the might its rickety frame could muster, and took off. Our women prattled inside in little clusters. Dressed in colourful sarees and dark lipsticks, they looked like festival versions of themselves. When they wandered to the front of the bus, Anita di gave repeated information about the journey: ‘We will be sharing rooms with one or two people,’ she reminded them.
Kabita was uncharacteristically quiet— unlike those rainy afternoons when she would invite me for tea at her little house at the edge of the village after group meetings.
The bus picked up speed, zooming past suburbs and putrid wastelands. Sonar ma occasionally squealed at the sight of shopping malls, pointing them out to her young friend Angoor. When the bus driver changed gears, the passengers rocked like a dinghy in a stormy sea. Kabita jutted her head out of the window. Her big-boned body convulsed as she retched. On reflex, I rubbed Kabita’s back, just as I did to my sister Tinni on long car trips. Kabita’s body jerked, startled at my touch. Then she glanced at me and calmed down. An angry voice erupted from the seat behind.
‘Ishh! There is puke on me! How will I sit here?’
I turned around to see an angry Bhamini, who wiped her face frantically with a brand-new handkerchief.
‘She isn’t throwing up on purpose. Why don’t you close your window?’ Sonar ma said in a shrill tone. Angoor nodded in support. The loan Kabita had handed out to Sonar ma last summer was paying off. At least Kabita had two friends in the village now.
Kabita looked too exhausted to respond. I headed towards the front of the bus.
‘Do you have Avomine and a plastic bag?’ I asked Anita di, the founder of Swanirbhar.
‘Who is it this time?’ Anita asked, fishing out the necessary kit.
‘Kabita.’
After gulping the tablet down, Kabita slept, much to everyone’s relief. As the bus pulled closer to Digha, the humid air blew against my face. I closed my eyes and tasted salt around my mouth. My printed cotton top clung to my sweaty back.
Upon reaching Digha, Sonar ma held on to Angoor and another woman, avoiding my eyes. On the way to the holiday home, whispers flew around us.
‘Who will sleep in the same room with a hijra?’
‘You don’t become a woman just by dressing like one.’
‘What would my husband say if he found out that I shared a room with a hijra?’
I asked Kabita if she would be okay with sharing a room with me. Kabita nodded her head, almost embarrassed.
‘I hope you don’t snore,’ I teased Kabita, trying to lighten the mood.
‘I don’t. Do you?’ Kabita grinned.
‘I’m not sure. You will find out,’ I said, meaning it.
In the evening, we went to the beach.
‘Oh, ma! It’s so big!’ Angoor trembled as she took in the Bay of Bengal for the first time in her life. Sonar ma muttered incoherent syllables of reverence. They all stopped to take in the vastness of the edgeless water before marching towards its humongous waves. Bathers who went for their afternoon fun in the sea waded up the ebb and flow of the waves at their feet. Their faces were beacons of contentment. The smell of fried jalebis and samosas wafted from the stalls nearby. Our women got busy buying little trinkets.
My phone buzzed. It was Arnab. Since his move to the US, we fought every week. Entering the first line of wind-blown casuarina trees by the beach, I pressed the phone to my ear. There was no one around.
‘It must be late for you,’ I said.
‘Why are you doing this to me, Leena?’
‘Doing what?’
‘Avoiding me. I have told you a hundred times it won’t happen again. I wasn’t trying to record you in skimpy night clothes. Even if you don’t believe me, please know it won’t happen again.’ He moaned.
‘Hmm. Leave it.’
‘Are you okay? I hear a lot of swooshing sounds around you.’
‘It’s the wind. I am on a work trip to Digha.’
‘Work trip? To Digha?’ Arnab laughed. ‘Are you okay?’ he added when I did not answer.
‘What makes you think I won’t be?’
‘Is it safe? Are there others with you? Khusbhoo said she saw you with a hijra the other day. Do you know her?’
‘What is it to you? And since when do you talk to Khushboo?’
‘I pinged her over Messenger, as you were not reachable. I was worried about you.’
‘I am not a child, Arnab. It would be good if you started respecting that,’ I hissed. I felt like a speck of sand. I disconnected.
I sat on a rock at the end of the uncrowded casuarina jungle lining the beach. Arnab resisted every new thing, trying to cling to the familiar, except when it came to moving to the US. He rarely registered when he crossed the line. When he was here, we met on weekends and then went back to our respective lives. Now that he was in a new country, his neediness bubbled like the froth of boiling milk. I was his new project, along with the one he was working on for his clients.
A firm hand lightly touched my arm. I jolted and looked up into Kabita’s clear eyes.
‘Everything will be okay,’ Kabita murmured. She folded the end of her saree and dropped to the ground on her knees.
I craved to be left alone, but I couldn’t tell Kabita off.
‘I am not as educated as you. But I know that distance causes a lot of fights. And the phone is a devil.’
I squinted, half-amused at Kabita’s words of wisdom.
‘Why is the phone a devil?’
‘Because you can’t see the person’s face. You say one thing, and it turns out to be another. When we have not seen a person for a long time, their words just become words. We forget their heart.’
The throbbing in my head lost its strength as Kabita spoke.
‘How do you know all this?’ I asked.
A bashful smile unfurled on Kabita’s lips. ‘There is someone. He is in Kolkata now for a few weeks, but he works in Bangalore. So, I know how it could be,’ Kabita slowly said, as if allowing me the time to process the facts.
‘Oh… that’s nice. I will have to hear more about him,’ I said in an involuntary high pitch. Questions swirled in my head.
Kabita stood up, prompting me to leave my rock. We sauntered to a part of the beach devoid of tourists. A shoreward wind brought in the smell of the sea and fish scales. Kabita pointed at the grey splashes of cloud in the sky that spotted the bright orange and purple hues. A year ago, Arnab and I witnessed a sunset like this in an obscure beach town nearby. Arnab had packed coconut narus, sesame chaklis, and death-by-chocolate cake – all my favourite midnight snacks– as our hotel had been in the middle of nowhere.
A voice boomed from some distance, shattering my reverie.
‘What are you doing here?’ thundered a burly policeman in a khaki uniform. A baton dangled from his hand. Another short one walked beside him with a hand on his hip.
‘Nothing. Is there a problem?’ I was baffled. Kabita froze. Her eyes were saucers of terror.
‘Oh, this is a woman,’ the burly man pointed towards my breasts, which his companion could not take his eyes off.
‘Are women supplying these people to clients now? Looks like there is a scarcity of female prostitutes,’ the short man sniggered, glaring at Kabita. I stared agape for a while before I shut my mouth. I sensed Kabita reaching for her purse, which I knew hardly held anything. Stealthily, I grabbed her arm. Holding my breath, I looked the burly man in the eye, ignoring the golden advice about the police everyone gave me all my life: get away from them, even if it is not your fault.
‘We are here on a trip with a larger group. Is there a problem?’ I asked, breaking into a sweat.
‘Trip with a hijra?’ the burly man grinned. ‘You look like someone from a good background. Tell me the truth or I’ll take you two to the police station,’ he casually swung his baton.
‘We are associated with an NGO called Swanirbhar, based out of Kolkata. If you want, I can call our friends at the police department in Kolkata to clear up any misunderstanding,’ I said, counting on Anita di’s connections. The policeman spat elaborately on the sand.
‘Let us take them to the station and teach them a lesson,’ the short policeman instigated, but the burly one appeared to be thinking as he pointed his baton towards Kabita.
‘Show your government IDs. Both of you,’ the burly man barked.
I showed my driver’s licence. Kabita was carrying only her Swanirbhar’s ID card. Before I could negotiate, a sharp strike of his baton hit Kabita on her back. I screamed, compensating for the lack of hers.
‘Don’t go to deserted beaches. Clear?’ the short man warned before the duo left.
I wrapped my arms around Kabita and panted. The stiffness of her body was matched by her silence. The muddied orange and purple sky gave way to a shadowy dusk. We strode towards the crowded part of the beach that shimmered with light and beachgoers.
‘Has this happened before?’ I whispered.
‘A thousand times. This is nothing. Whether you are into prostitution or not, they will extract money from you.’
I squirmed at the thought of Kabita being a prostitute. She was a tailor and an entertainer!
‘I know what you are thinking. Many hijras get the operation done to become a woman. Some end up in prostitution. The money is good. Who wants to give us any decent work anyway?’
My throat felt dry. ‘It must be expensive? The operation?’ I asked, hoping to steer away from the sordidness.
‘Yes, but there are a few places that do it for a reasonable price. My late guru paid for mine, years ago. I had to earn it by serving her for years. Only after she died, I ventured out alone as a tailor with the Swanirbhar.’ Kabita’s eyes went glassy, watching the distant waves.
‘Did you feel different? After the operation?’
‘It was very painful right after the operation, but after the wound healed, I felt whole. My body and mind were in harmony.’ Kabita paused. ‘A lot worse could have happened if you didn’t stand up to the police like that! Like Jhansi ki Rani.’ Kabita giggled.
I smiled. ‘Where did you read about Jhansi ki Rani?’
‘Remember, I told you I have studied till ninth standard? I was a decent student.’
My stomach lurched. I hadn’t yet talked to Anita di about the field agent job that Kabita so wanted.
At nightfall, we regrouped at the holiday home. A huge cauldron of khichdi was simmering on a stove. Two young men from the holiday home oversaw the preparations. A couple of young women hung out at the kitchen door, giving the caretakers bashful smiles. In the common room the women were busy showing each other their newly acquired possessions from the beach vendors and the prices they had paid. Angoor, with all her guilelessness, was emerging the clear winner in the art of negotiation. The others tittered, perhaps it was her youthful charm. I studied their faces. Each one of them had a glow I had never seen before.
Sonar ma swung her hips to imitate a scantily clad girl she had seen on the beach. Laughter gurgled through the room. Away from their million worries, the women had taken on newfound personalities. Is this what marriage and responsibilities did to women? Extinguished their fire?
‘Won’t you sing for us?’ Angoor called out to Kabita. Others joined in the request. Shedding the gloom of the beach, Kabita wrapped her sari around her waist and sang a peppy Bengali folk song.
‘Sohag chaand badani dhwani nacho to dekhi
Bala nacho to dekhi. bala nacho to dekhi. bala nacho to dekhi’
‘My moonlike girl, please dance to the music
My girl let me see you dance, let me see you dance, let me see you dance’
The crowd cheered and clapped along to the beats. The music took root in the air. By the end of the song, the whole room, including me, was dancing.
After dinner, I settled down in my single bed, separated from Kabita’s by a tiny plastic table.
‘I had fun today. Can’t remember the last time I danced like that ,’ I mused.
‘For a change, no one in the group had any taunts for me,’ Kabita smirked.
‘It is unfortunate that some are that way. But not everyone.’
Kabita nodded.
‘It is good to see you finally enjoying yourself. You looked so glum in the bus when we started the journey,’ I said.
Kabita sighed. ‘The guy I told you about this morning–he is in trouble. I don’t know how to get him out.’
I turned on my side to face Kabita. ‘What happened?’
Kabita spoke slowly.
‘A year ago, he took a loan from a moneylender in the city. He went to Bangalore to work in construction to pay off the debt. Then his father got sick. Everything that he saved went into paying the hospital bill. The moneylender is threatening him and asking him to pay up for the missed instalments with an insane amount of interest. Higher than the actual instalments themselves.’
I was aware of the criminally high interest that moneylenders charged to those who had no access to traditional banks.
‘Why didn’t you raise the loan from the NGO’s lending group?’ I asked, almost immediately realising the fallacies of such a deal.
Kabita sprung up on her bed. ‘I told Shambhu a hundred times that I would take the loan for him, but he declined. If his family found out that I arranged for the loan, they would beat him up or force him to marry to a girl of their choice. They discovered me last year and almost disowned him. At least the moneylender is known to his family, Shambhu said.’ Kabita grimaced.
‘What will you do now?’
‘I will try for a loan from the lending group to repay the moneylender’s loan. But that is unlikely to happen before a month.’
‘Can’t he negotiate with the moneylender for another few weeks without any interest?’
‘Those people are very crooked,’ Kabita sighed. A flash of lightning passed through her eyes. ‘If you go and talk to the moneylender with us, maybe he will listen,’ she added.
‘Why would he listen to me?’ I was crestfallen.
‘If he knows someone like you is on our side, he may not trouble Shambhu so much. Maybe he will have more faith that I will arrange for the money.’
Someone like me? A weight of resistance and excitement passed through my spine before my urge to protect Kabita from further agony overpowered it. I wondered what Arnab would think of me if I told him. The roar of crashing waves travelled to our room. A high tide must have been sweeping the coastline.
‘I’ll go with you to the moneylender.’
My phone rang. I said a brisk goodnight to Arnab.
‘Are you going to get married soon?’ Kabita asked with a smile.
Kabita too had to ask this?
‘I don’t know. Let him come back from the US next year. We’ll see then.’
‘Okay,’ Kabita sounded tentative. ‘Shambhu says that once we pay off the loan, he wants to marry me and take me to Bangalore, away from his family.’
‘Oh, good.’ My voice sounded like an out-of-tune instrument.
‘I know didi, it’s not legal… but Shambhu is insisting. I will have to really temper my deep voice when I go there.’ A flush of crimson appeared on Kabita’s cheeks.
‘That’s great Kabita,’ I said, but a constriction clenched my chest told me otherwise. I had questions about the sincerity of Shambhu’s promise that was conveniently tied to the economics of his life. Why could Kabita not see how easy it was for Shambhu to use her with the bait of marriage? We switched off the lights. I tossed in bed for a long time before falling asleep.
When we returned to Kolkata, I broached the subject of Kabita’s job with Anita di. Kabita was educated enough for the job and as a participant in the livelihood program, had shown enough discipline. Anita di dismissed me, pointing out how hard it would be for Kabita to command respect, let alone conduct meetings and educate groups of rural women. It was one thing to include Kabita in a women-only program–that was progressive–but this? It was absurd. I avoided Kabita for a few weeks, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. Then I privately spoke to the director of the government funding agency, which funded Swanirbhar. I knew him from my previous job and was aware of a mandate to focus on diversity. My plan worked. The next day, Anita di relented to recruit Kabita amidst grumbles and acidic remarks.
On the same day, someone told me that Kabita had raised a loan from the lending group the week before. I called to congratulate Kabita on marking the end of all her troubles. She thanked me in an insipid tone and invited me for tea at her place.
With the mild early-winter sun on our backs, we sat on the veranda of Kabita’s tiny thatched-roof house. The floor looked dusty. Her hair was uncombed. Swipes of darkness sat under her swollen eyes. I waited for her to speak.
‘They broke Shambhu’s head when they found out about our secret temple wedding. He died the next day,’ Kabita uttered through her parched lips.
I gasped. ‘Why didn’t you tell me anything?’ I wailed. She ignored me.
‘You know the worst part? They did not let me go to the cremation ground.’
Did she report the murder to the police? I was about to ask but bit my lip instead. Anguish and guilt for something I could not identify choked my throat. Only minutes ago, I was congratulating Kabita on the job. In my mind, I saw Shambhu’s bleeding head on Kabita’s lap. I saw Manjari breaking her marital bangles at the cremation ground. Kabita and I sat motionless as the dark ink of loss spread through the space between us.
Sayani De is a writer of fiction and creative nonfiction. Her work has been longlisted for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize 2025 and shortlisted for the Rama Mehta Writing Grant 2025 ( results pending in September ’25). Some of her stories have been featured/ selected in several literary magazines, including The Bangalore Review, Indian Literature( Ministry of Culture, India), Tamarind Literary magazine( UK), Witcraft, Muse India, The Selkie (UK) anthology, Indian Review, Kitaab, Borderless Journal. She is working on her first novel and lives in Kolkata, India. She is an engineer from NIT Allahabad, India, has an MBA from the University of Utah, US and has worked in the software industry.
Image Credit Ibrahim Mushan on Unsplash
