When I was twenty-four, I washed up in a downmarket pub in Mumbai. During the day, I needed to help the chef; in the evening, I worked as a waiter. At night, I would clean up the pub after the patrons left. Often, my work extended into the wee hours, and later, I would lie awake in the corner of the utility room, watching the fan move in infinite circles.
Months passed by. I floated through the days, keeping myself busy doing my chores, smiling occasionally, and humming to myself. The pub owner seemed to be a good person, and I made friends with the chef and the bartender. To the world outside, I was a well-groomed waiter – white shirt, black trousers, black waistcoat, and a pair of perfectly polished black shoes. But deep in my heart, unuttered questions sedimented and weighed me down like a grindstone. Who am I really? What have I turned into? How long can I pretend to be a man? I evaded them, just like I avoided that full-length mirror in the pub’s toilet. I hardly looked at anything reflective, be it the bar’s mirrored wall, the polished granite tables, or my heart. And then, I came across a mirror that I couldn’t avoid, a mirror that reflected my truth. Dhamini.
It all started with the renovation of the pub’s unused stage. Carpenters fixed its loose planks, and the electrician fitted new spotlights. I was assigned to help the workers. Whenever I stood on that stage holding up a tray of tools, a strange warmth enveloped me. Once the stage was ready, the boss put out an open call for performers. They came in flocks: wannabe comedians, music bands, guitarists, poets, and vocalists. My evenings turned livelier. I would stand there, holding a tray of glasses, listening to a standup comedian talking about his mother’s antics. Sometimes, I laughed so loud that people turned their heads to see if there was a hyena in the house. The bartender would give me a stern glance, and I would run off to the kitchen, trying not to fall apart with laughter. Then, I would recount the joke to the chef, and the kitchen would echo with peals of laughter.
Being a waiter was a boon. Even though I was busy serving tables, I kept my eyes trained on the stage. From time to time, I would have an irresistible urge to get onto that stage. Don’t be greedy; this is the best life you could get. Be grateful for what you have. I kept telling myself. And then, Dhamini entered my life.
“Today, we have a very special performance. Put your hands together for Dhamini, the drag queen!” My boss made a special announcement that evening. Dhamini emerged from behind the velvet curtain, waving her hand and flashing an enchanting smile. She wore a red silk sari and heavy ornaments. Her waist-long hair cascaded like a waterfall. A slow Hindi film song flowed into the pub, and Dhamini started moving.
I stood awestruck, holding a tray of margaritas, watching Dhamini lip-sync to Hindi songs. A thunderbolt descended on me, charging every cell in my body, the same sensation I’d felt when I first saw Kelu Ashaan on stage. The music accelerated, and Dhamini started twirling. My breath stopped. My body began to heat up.
The music reached its final octaves, and Dhamini acquired tremendous speed, transforming herself into a glinting column of colour and sparkle. My body was on fire; my skin melted inside my black waistcoat. Leaving the tray of margaritas unattended on the bar counter, I ran to the utility room and slammed the door behind me. I tore my waistcoat off, unbuttoned my shirt and sat on the floor, huffing and puffing.
“Give a huge round of applause for Dhamini, the lightning!” I heard the voice of the emcee, followed by thunderous clapping. A few minutes later, my body cooled down. I put on my clothes again and headed to the bar. Dhamini had already left the stage.
“Where the hell did you go?” the bartender barked at me.
Later that night, when the pub was almost empty, I overheard a conversation between my boss and his friend.
“Wow! I didn’t know there were drag performers in India!”
“Not many, but the trend has definitely started. There are only a handful of performers in Mumbai. The police often sniff out their shows and harass them. So, they lay low and do quick shows like this,’ my boss said.”
“He was gorgeous on the stage,” the friend said.
“Umm … not ‘he’. Dhamini uses the pronoun ‘they’.”
“Oh, I thought a drag queen meant a man who dresses up as a woman. Isn’t it like that?”
“No, no. There aren’t any rules like that. Anyone can be a drag queen. It’s an art form and not specific to any gender,” my boss corrected.
“So, Dhamini… Are they a trans woman?” the friend asked after a few vodka shots. I listened intently, thankful for his vodka-induced inquisitiveness.
“Dhamini’s drag persona is a woman, but outside drag, they are a gender non-conforming person. Their gender is distinct from a man or a woman.”
“I… I don’t understand. Isn’t everyone either a man or a woman? Or… Maybe a mix of both in varying degrees?” the friend asked.
“No, not necessarily. Hmm… how will I explain it to you? Let me see… Ok, you are a painter, right? So, what if someone tells you that you can use only three colours to paint the sky? White, blue and black or a mix of these colours. You’ll immediately say it’s ridiculous. The case with genders is like that. If we can accept infinite colours of the sky, why can’t we accept infinite possibilities of genders?”
For a long while, the friend sat there, gulping shot after shot of vodka.
Listening to them, my heart did a somersault. During my childhood, Appa kept saying that I would grow up to be a powerful man. It gave me nightmares to imagine myself as a man with a big moustache and bulging biceps. And, all these years, I knew that I wasn’t a man or a woman, but I thought it wasn’t allowed, and I would be punished for it. Instead of embracing my truth, I was terrified of it and fought it all the time. I pretended to be someone I wasn’t so that I could survive, be accepted, even be loved. Listening to my boss, a fire that was long extinguished started crackling in the pit of my stomach.
Excerpted with permission from The Tree, the Well and the Drag Queen, Salini Vineeth, The Red River Press.
