I am Radha, an eighty-nine-year-old widow, a grandmother, the story-weaver of my village, and the invisible pillar of my small rural village Kundapur in Karnataka, India. It is one of those regular days when I narrate a story to the youth of the village and everyone who gathers around me to listen. Today, it’s something different. My heart harbors a secret story – a narrative filled with courage, compassion, struggle, and self-realization.
My eyes flicker open as the rooster echoed through the serene dawn. I wake up, my old, rheumy eyes flickering open to the first blush of the sun. As sunlight filters into my small hut, like a bashful bride slipping in through the doors, I know it is time to share Veera’s story with the village. People have been asking suspiciously about Veera for a long time.
Wearing my age and determination, I shuffle out of my home in the morning. The sun, high and mighty, casts long shadows as I make my way to the village square. My aging feet are etching patterns on the dusty ground. Like an age-old Banyan tree, I nestle under its canopy, inviting the villagers for the daily story-time meeting. As the villagers gather, the atmosphere turns anticipatory, their eyes reflecting curiosity, like a pond rippling under a pebble’s touch.
This morning as I relay the story from twenty-five years ago to my villagers, I recount that very same story to you, my readers, as if you were there among them that day.
***
This story is about Veera, who has been embroidered meticulously into the fabric of my soul, ready to be unfurled. Veera, the golden ray of my twilight years, was distinct from the beginning. While the village boys sought joy in roughhousing and climbing mango trees, and the girls giggled, sharing secrets, Veera, like a solitary Banyan tree, lived on the fringes, somewhere between the realm of boys and girls. She found a strange comfort in the world of written words, in the faint melodies drifting from my old radio, and in the solitude of their thoughts.
Suddenly Ratan Babu, an elderly villager, turned towards me. My heart pounded like a fierce dholak in a folk song. ‘Go ahead, Radha Tai,’ He said. ‘We need to know what goes on inside our village, especially if the story is so close to your heart.’
‘Today, I want to disclose this secret in front of all of you.’ I began, my voice wavering like a delicate ghungroo trembling on the edge of its dance, ‘Veera is my grandchild who inhabits two worlds. Her exterior one, the sunbaked earth of our village Kundapur in Karnataka, teemed with coconut groves, roaming chickens, and vibrant sarees catching the glint of the midday sun. Then, there’s the interior world, as vibrant yet concealed, just as a peacock hides its plumage until the time feels right. Veera is a part of the LGBTQ+ community, a transgender man, and this is the story of Veera’s two worlds.’
All attention was towards me, with several agape mouths staring at me. I started weaving a story like a beautiful phulkari dupatta, each thread recounting an episode of Veera’s life, starting from when Veera was a child.
‘Veera was born in the monsoons, as if the skies themselves wept with joy,’ I reminisced, ‘But their joy was different, nuanced, not like ours.’
As a child, Veera was always different, though I couldn’t put a finger on it. Her name, Veera, felt like an ill-fitted garment, chafing against the skin of her true identity. She was born into a world that was as black and white as a chessboard, a realm of simplicity that glorified binaries and shunned shades. Yet, her heart throbbed with a different rhythm, a symphony that went beyond the conventional scales. Veera was always a sensitive child, more inclined to paint and poetry than play. I recalled an incident that stood out starkly against the backdrop of our otherwise mundane life. Veera, no more than a child of twelve, had come to me one evening, her young face clouded with confusion.
“Dadi, do you remember the story you once told me? The one about the king who wore the queen’s clothes when she was away?” Veera had asked.
I nodded, “Yes, Veera, but why do you ask?” Veera looked up from a book, her eyes the color of a storm-swept sky.
“Dadi, what if I told you that I am not a girl? What if I told you that the body I am in feels like a stranger’s clothes?” Veera’s voice trembled, as delicate as a leaf caressed by the autumn wind. “Dadi, I feel like that king. Except, the king doesn’t return to his clothes. He was happier in the queen’s,” Veera explained, her voice a mere whisper. I could see the anxiety in her eyes, as tangible as a monsoon cloud ready to burst.
I remembered the fear in Veera’s eyes, the vulnerability that hung over her like a specter. I’d taken her hand in mine. My own hand trembling like the sacred leaf of the peepal in prayer, “Veera,” I’d replied, “Like the river cradles the stone, so will I always cradle you.”
I knew that Growing up as a transgender person in rural India was like being a peacock in a field of sparrows. Veera was different, vibrantly so, but being different in a place where ‘different’ is synonymous with ‘unacceptable’ was not easy.
That day, we had a long conversation. Veera poured out her feelings, her fears, her hopes, and her confusion. She spoke of feeling trapped as if she were a bird locked in a cage – a cage of societal expectations and norms. I listened, trying to comprehend the enormity of what my grandchild was revealing. She cried. Her tears were the river in spate, breaking its bank, washing away the frail sandcastle of her hopes.
Soon the news spread through the village like wildfire, licking up the peace and tranquility of our life. Whispers followed Veera, pointed fingers marking her as different. Veera was the story everyone told with hushed voices, a tale of the unnatural, the ungodly.
The villagers began to shun Veera, their words stung like a swarm of bees. ‘It’s not natural,’ they’d say. ‘God doesn’t create such people.’
My family, once respected, became an outcast. We were the unwanted weeds in the otherwise perfect landscape of this village’s reality.
A local Godman, considered the village’s spiritual leader, declared Veera’s affliction a curse. From my strong embrace and eyes filled with concern, the villagers dragged Veera to the Godman.
‘Save my child,’ I implored, my voice as brittle as a dried leaf. The Godman gazed at me, his eyes cruel. He uttered, ‘Radha, it is a test by the gods. Veera’s soul needs cleansing.’
The purification rituals were brutal. Veera was subjected to days of fasting and prayers. Her body was scourged, and her spirit was crushed. Each passing day was like a cruel summer, sucking the life out of her.
Despite the torture, Veera’s feelings didn’t change. They were like the monolith by the river, unmoving despite the currents of prejudice. Veera was a tree, stripped of its leaves by the harsh winter, but her roots—her identity—remained firm.
As Veera grew older, this dissonance became a permanent resident in the corners of her existence. When the village girls whispered secrets, giggling about their crushes and dreamt about the future as wives and mothers, Veera felt like an outsider, a parched wanderer lost in the lush forests of femininity. When the boys ran wild, their energy rippling through the dusty fields, Veera yearned to join them, not as a spectator but as a participant, as a friend and a fellow adventurer.
At the tender age of thirteen, I remember feeling a strange sense of displacement looking at Veera. Her father gifted Veera a doll, an ordinary toy with a cascade of golden hair and a crimson dress, looking as pretty as a marigold in full bloom. Yet, as she held it in her small hands, I saw a profound sense of disconnection, as if Veera were a musician holding a brush instead of a sitar.
I paused, casting a look around at the villagers sitting there listening to me diligently. They were hanging on to my every word. ‘But why did it happen to Veera,’ one villager remarked. ‘She must have been a sinner in her previous life, and people like her could bring a curse upon our village. Why didn’t you disown her and ostracize her from your house and our village.’
‘Veera is not a sinner,’ I had said with a troubled heart engrossed in fear and anticipation of consequences.
‘Never mind. Veera’s story is skeptical, yet fascinating,’ another villager showed interest in Veera’s story.
Encouraged, I continued.
Veera’s teenage years brought a tempest of emotions, a whirlpool that sucked her into its chaos. When Veera turned fourteen, the women of the family celebrated Veera’s transition into womanhood, an event as pompous as a local fair and as public as the entire family. They didn’t realize that each congratulatory pat felt like a slap on Veera’s soul, each joyous laugh echoed as a somber toll in her heart. Veera was a prisoner witnessing the construction of her own shackles.
Veera’s school, the wellspring of knowledge, turned into a battlefield. The teachers, the village scholars, attempted to mold her, to fit her into the age-old societal frameworks. But each lesson felt like a nail hammered into the coffin of Veera’s true self. The only solace in this tumultuous period was the secluded corner of her school library, Veera’s private sanctuary. When we laughed at jokes around the fire, Veera laughed at lines from worn-out poetry books.
Veera identified herself to me as a transgender man, walking the tightrope between acceptance and derision. It was as if Veera had been playing a game of hide-and-seek with the world, finally emerging from the shadows, ready to stand in her truth.
Like a lotus blooming in a dirty pond, Veera chose to blossom in adversity. When the village children teased Veera, she came back home, tears stinging her eyes. But Veera didn’t let her spirit falter. She found strength, just like a fragile vine finds its way to the sun through the dark forest.
It was that one year, when, one day, as scorching as a blacksmith’s furnace, the villagers gathered under the ancient banyan tree, where wisdom typically flew as freely as the Ganges. I watched them from my mud-brick house, a structure as silent and enduring as the centuries-old boulders on the outskirts of our village.
‘Veera,’ I called out, my voice echoing in our sparse yet welcoming home. My voice was like the pitter-patter of rain on the tin roof, comforting and soothing to Veera. ‘Go, fetch some water from the well.
Every journey to the well was like an internal pilgrimage to Veera. As she walked through the bylanes, children playing gilli-danda halted, their expressions mirrored confusion and curiosity as if they were trying to decipher a difficult riddle. Veera was their unsolvable puzzle, a living, breathing oxymoron in their simple, binary world.
‘Isn’t that Veera?’ a voice whispered as she passed.
‘No,’ retorted another, ‘She’s Veer now.’ The whispers fluttered around Veera like unsettled sparrows, piercing yet ephemeral.
Veera’s journey unveiled her brave yet lonely path to self-discovery. It was a rocky road strewn with instances of ridicule, rejection, and torment. When the village boys discovered Veera’s secret, they cornered her, their laughter echoed ominously through the narrow village lanes, they ripped apart Veera’s beloved poetry books and stole her art supplies.
Veera came home that day, her face the color of the twilight sky, her spirit as crushed as the marigold under a careless foot. She wept bitterly; her body trembled like a leaf in a storm. I held her close, soothing her shattered soul. From then, Veera again began to hide her truth, to live under a cloak of pretense.
Years passed. Veera grew from a child to a young adult; her pain only deepened with time. The villagers couldn’t understand why Veera, a beautiful young ‘woman,’ preferred the company of books and words over men.
One day, hidden behind dusty shelves in the library, Veera found an old book on human biology. It was a revelation, the unfurling of holy scripture that held answers to her agonizing questions. The words ‘transgender’ and ‘gender dysphoria’ leaped out of the pages as if they were waiting to be discovered. A word had unlocked Veera’s identity, giving her a sense of belonging in a world that had otherwise ostracized her. The riddle that Veera was to herself, finally had an answer.
“Didn’t the revelation cause a severe backlash,” Debu Thakur asked in a firm voice.
“It indeed did,” I answered and began telling the next phase of Veera’s life.
At sixteen, armed with her newfound self-realization, Veera attempted to introduce Veer to her world. She abandoned her feminine attire, her braid fell like a deadweight, cut off, left behind. Veera wore pants that she had secretly tailored from her father’s old trousers, her heart thudding like the erratic beats of the dholak at a folk dance.
To say the villagers were shocked would be an understatement. Their faces mirrored confusion and intrigue, just like a fresco on an ancient temple wall. But I saw empathy too, just like dew drops on a parched leaf.
The village was thrown into turmoil. What they perceived as rebellion was Veera’s desperate plea for authenticity. She was a topic of heated discussions, a scandalous piece of news passed around like monsoon sweetmeats, each nibble distorting Veera’s truth a little more.
I remember the day when the village Pradhan at that time, Appaiah, summoned Veera to the panchayat.
Appaiah was a gnarled silhouette of stubbornness, reminiscent of the village’s banyan tree. With the intention of ‘restoring’ balance to the community, he called a meeting to address Veera’s ‘unnatural’ existence. The tension was palpable, like a storm gathering momentum, the air thick with trepidation.
Appaiah’s eyes, hard and cold, bore into Veera as she stood before the village assembly. His accusation, his denial of Veera’s truth, was like an open wound.
“Veera,” Appaiah’s words shot across the silent gathering, his eyes hard and unyielding as slivers of glass, “Why do you want to become a man?”
“I don’t want to become a man, Appaiah Kaka,” Veera replied, holding his gaze, “I already am one.”
That day Veera publicly declared herself as “Veer,” a man.
That was just a ray of hope because no one acted outrageously toward Veer. Now Veera became Veer, inhabiting two worlds. The exterior one belonged to the village Kundapur in Karnataka, drenched in the vibrant hues of nature. It hummed with the sweet lullabies of coconut groves, the frantic ruffling of chickens, and the startling colors of sarees catching the sun’s flirtatious wink. Then, there was the second world, a secret haven veiled within Veer, akin to the splendid plumage of a peacock hidden until the perfect dance. Veer was a part of the LGBTQ+ community, a transgender man, and this became the intertwining tale of Veer’s two worlds.
“What happened to Veer later?” Another villager asked, wearily pushing the door open to Veer’s life and stepping inside. The warm flickering glow of other villagers was inviting. It encouraged me to continue Veer’s story.
A few nights later, Veer met Shanti. She was a social worker from the city, her spirit untouched by the prejudices that plagued Kundapur. When Veer saw Shanti for the first time, she was like a lotus blooming amidst the muddy waters, her resolute determination set her apart. Shanti carried a tape recorder, an instrument of her trade, a device that would soon become the bridge between Veer’s silent struggle and the world beyond Kundapur.
Shanti entered Veer’s life as a friend. Her spirit, effervescent like the first monsoon breeze, was a revelation in the parched landscape of Kundapur. She saw Veer, recognized his struggle, and vowed to tell his story.
Under the cloak of night, as crickets played their symphony and stars illuminated the sky like rogue diamonds, they met. Her tape recorder, an impartial judge and eager listener, was their only company as Veer breathed life into his journey.
“Begin at the start, Veer,” Shanti had urged during one such session.
Under the starlit canvas of the sky, Veer and Shanti sat in my humble abode. The symphony of nocturnal life played the background score as Veer began to narrate his journey. With each memory, each tear, each laugh, his story wove itself into the tape, a record for the ages.
Veer’s story unfolded, the tale of an individual’s journey from the illusion of Veera to the reality of Veer. Through the spoken words, Veer’s pain, struggles, and victories transcended the boundaries of our village, flowing into the heart of an awakening society.
“Did Shanti and Veer marry?” Asked a curious villager.
“No, their relationship was beyond the thread of marriage,” I replied and continued the story.
The following year, an unexpected invitation arrived. Veer was invited as a guest speaker at the inaugural LGBTQ+ summit at a renowned university in Bangalore. A thrill coursed through Veer, the significance of the moment as profound as the first rains after a prolonged drought.
The day arrived with palpable excitement. As Veer walked onto the stage, a flood of whispers washed over him. But this time, the whispers were different. They were not the hushed voices of judgment and discrimination but the excited murmurs of a crowd eager to listen, to understand, to learn.
Veer’s voice echoed through the auditorium, each word imprinted on the tapestry of silence. The faces around him transformed from strangers into a sea of supporters, their applause a validation of Veer’s existence, his identity, and his journey. That day, Veer’s voice was not just his own, but it became the voice of countless souls who were voiceless, shackled by society’s biases and their own fears. Veer’s struggle became a beacon of hope, an assurance that it was okay to be different, to embrace who you truly are.
Triumphant and transformed, Veer returned to Kundapur. He was no longer just Veer, the misunderstood misfit; He was Veer, the voice of the voiceless, an emissary of change. Veer took this opportunity to establish the village’s first LGBTQ+ support group.
The group met under the banyan tree, their meetings mirroring the panchayat gatherings but with a major difference. The meetings were not about judgment but about acceptance, not about conformity but about celebrating diversity. Their voices, once hushed and silenced, now echoed under the canopy of the ancient banyan, their words transforming the very roots of Kundapur.
“What happened to Shanti? Another genuine question from a villager, and I was happy to answer. I continued with the story of the transcendence of Veer.
Life moved forward like the relentless flow of the river Kundapur. Veer’s journey of life grew tendril and traveled beyond Kundapur through Shanti’s tape recorder. Each retelling was a seed sown in minds previously barren of understanding or empathy. Shanti worked tirelessly, using Veer’s journey as an educational tool, bringing about a change in the village. Veer became a beacon for silent struggles, his identity morphing from a controversial topic to an inspiring tale of resilience and change. Shanti and Veer held sessions for educators, parents, and students, educating them about the existence and acceptance of diverse identities.
Over time, the whispers of skepticism transformed into conversations of understanding. Kundapur, the village that once questioned his existence, became the birthplace of a movement, a place that learned to appreciate and accept diversity.
In the ever-evolving landscape of life, Veer found his place. He was not just a person; He was a narrative, a testament to the struggle and resilience of the LGBTQ+ community in rural India. Veer’s journey, peppered with hardships and triumphs, was an assurance to those whose voices were yet to be heard. Their stories, too, were waiting to be told. They, too, could find their place, just like Veer found his in Kundapur.
In the tapestry of Veer’s existence, every thread, every color held its significance. The darker shades marked his struggles, the vibrant hues signified his victories, and the intricate patterns were a testament to Veer’s complex yet fulfilling journey.
Over the next few years, Veer continued to work closely with the village community. The seeds of understanding that Shanti and Veer had sown began to sprout, transforming Kundapur’s rigid landscape into a nurturing field of acceptance and inclusion. The village that had once been skeptical of Veer’s identity now regarded him with a newfound respect. The silence that had once been punctuated with derogatory slurs was now filled with earnest questions and enlightened conversations.
“How come no one objected to this unusual phenomenon and lifestyle?” An intrigued young man asked. I had an answer as I continued the story.
The path toward complete acceptance was not smooth. There were moments of setbacks, instances where the old prejudice would rear its head, attempting to disrupt the peaceful harmony Veera and Shanti had strived to build. Each challenge, however, strengthened Veer’s resolve. With every obstacle, Veer became more resilient and more dedicated to his cause. His life took on a rhythm that was a symphony of transformation. The days were filled with activities – counseling sessions, meetings, awareness programs, and at times, simple conversations under the banyan tree. The nights were a sanctuary, a tranquil haven where Veer could pause, reflect, and gather his strength for the journey ahead.
That was the time when I wanted to put forth the legacy of Veer as I continued the past chapter of Veer’s life.
As the years passed, Kundapur evolved, growing with each narrative it cradled. The younger generation was more receptive; their minds unburdened by the chains of age-old bias. They were curious, their questions, their confessions marking the advent of a new era of change.
With every year that passed, the LGBTQ+ support group in our village expanded. What had started as a small gathering under the banyan tree had grown into a community that stood together, unfettered by prejudice. Together, they were not just survivors but warriors; their voices rose above the murmur of ignorance, weaving a new narrative of acceptance in the history of Kundapur.
Every step Veer took, every word he spoke, and every life he touched added a new chapter in the annals of his existence. He was Veer, a man who embraced his truth, weathered the storm, and emerged as a beacon of change. Veer’s story was a testament to resilience, the power of authenticity, and the potential of a single voice that dared to challenge the norms.
Veer’s tale ends here, but the narrative of change continues. Each day is a new page, each individual, a new character in this story that is far from over.
*****
As I look back at the winding path I’ve traversed with Veer as his grandmother, I am filled with a profound sense of Veer’s accomplishment. The little village of Kundapur, which had once shied away from acknowledging Veer’s existence, now reverberates with the echoes of acceptance and change.
I stand here, a testament to the transformative power of truth, Veer’s journey serving as a beacon for those still navigating the maze of gender identity. And in their journey, I see the reflection of my Veer’s struggle, his triumph, and his evolution. It’s an unending cycle, a story within a story, ever-evolving and forever inspiring.
Veer is my grandson, and this is his story – a tale that started with confusion and was filled with struggles but eventually led to acceptance and, more importantly, self-realization. A tale that inspires others to embark on their journeys of self-discovery and to find the courage to embrace their truth, no matter how different it might be from the world around them. My Veer’s story, just like the ancient banyan tree, continues to grow, fostering a space of acceptance and understanding.
I have narrated Veer’s story multiple times to people of every gender. Every person I’ve inspired, every life I’ve touched, every mind I’ve opened, they are all chapters in my ongoing narrative, a narrative that has the power to change the world, one story at a time.
I am Radha, the story-weaver of my village, the chronicler of truth, the voice of the voiceless. Today, I gave voice to a tale that needed to be told. Like a silkworm leaving its cocoon, my village has embarked on a transformative journey, holding my hand and listening to the stories I spin from the threads of life. Veer’’s story is one such tale, a tale of embracing oneself. Today, I spun that tale into the collective consciousness of my youth villagers. Tomorrow, who knows whose story will echo through the dusty lanes? But echo, it will. Because stories, like truth, demand to be heard.
Veer’s story needed to be told, needed to be heard. I have given a voice to Veer’s silence. As the setting sun paints the sky with shades of twilight, I can only hope that tomorrow will be a new dawn, not just for Veer but for our village as well.
I concluded my tale with a request — a plea for acceptance, for love, for understanding.
My voice breaks like a potter’s wheel that has spun one time too many. Veer, my child, is transgender. This is his truth, as real as the sun that lights our day and the moon that guides us at night. And I ask you, my village, my family, to embrace Veer, not with judgment, but with open hearts and open minds.
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