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Magazine
It's her story
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Myself Mona Ahmed is a biographical account of a eunuch, her loneliness of being marginalised in society and finally the endurance of the human spirit. Here are exclusive extracts from the introduction to the book by DAYANITA SINGH and excerpts from letters written by Mona to her publisher. The book was released in Delhi earlier this week.
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'I get the strong urge to dance from within.' Ayesha's second birthday in 1991.
I MET Mona very early in my career, in 1989 on a routine assignment on eunuchs in India, commissioned by the London Times. For me, this was a way to establish my credentials as a photojournalist, to show that I was on a par with the boys in my male-dominated profession. When you work for the media, which tend to see India only as either exotic or disastrous, a story on eunuchs is a must, along with a story on prostitution, child labour, dowry deaths, and child marriage. There are one million eunuchs in India; around five per cent were born as eunuchs (with deformed genitals), the rest are all castrated boys. Obviously, this aspect of Indian culture lends itself to all kinds of myths and prejudices. Every few months, the ``true story'' of a eunuch is published somewhere, yet eunuchs are very media-savvy and will allow journalists and researchers only limited access, if any — always strictly controlled by eunuchs themselves.
On the day of my assignment, I walked around a Delhi neighbourhood with extremely narrow lanes, asking for Akbar Milkman's Lane, looking for the house of the legendary eunuchs Sona and Chaman. I had already heard of this beautiful duo of eunuchs, famous for their performances at weddings. During the partition of India and Pakistan, Sona went to Pakistan, and Chaman stayed on in India. 45 years later, people in Turkman Gate, the neighbourhood where they lived, still spoke of them with awe. My appointment was with Chaman's student, Mona Ahmed. Mona is a female name and Ahmed is a male name. To me, she is just Mona, but to her family she is Ahmed.
The lanes seemed to get even narrower as I got closer to Mona Ahmed's house. Terrified, I rang the musical bell and was greeted by a very handsome eunuch, fully made-up and wearing lots of jewellery. ``Welcome to my house,'' she said. I was amazed at the warmth with which I was greeted not just by Ahmed, but also by all the other eunuchs living in the household that Chaman headed . . .
'When I started to live in the graveyard, my own family thought I was crazy and admitted me to the mental asylum. I came here because I could not bear the false glamour of city life. I hated the pretense that people pur on.'
To my surprise, Mona agreed to be photographed, and we spent the entire day shooting. However, she changed her mind upon hearing that the photographs were for the London Times, and not the New York Times, as she had relatives in the U.K. who did not know about her being a eunuch. She asked me to return the film. I did not have any choice and returned the film to her . . .
In India, every city is divided into neighbourhoods, each of them assigned to a group of eunuchs who will give blessings in the area and claim money for them. No other eunuch can ask for money in the area. The eunuchs have a script to mark the houses they have been to. People believe that as they are neither male nor female, their blessings and curses may have magical powers. Thus most people are unwilling to run the risk of their curse at the start of a marriage or when moving in a new house . . .
Some time before I got to know her, Mona adopted a baby girl named Ayesha. Her birthday parties lasted three nights, and even eunuchs from Pakistan would attend the festivities. Somehow, an unusual trust between Mona and me had developed by then, and I was the chief photographer at these celebrations, a rare honour in the self-closed eunuch society . . .
We were like two old school girlfriends, Mona advising me on my relationships and suggesting projects I could work on in my photography. When we were on the street, however, she became my protector. If anyone in her neighbourhood dared to question what I was doing there, or why I took photographs, she gave them a mouthful. Although usually a look was all it took . . .
This was in the early years of our friendship. As the years went by, and we both got older, the equation shifted. More and more, I felt that I had to take care of Mona, especially after Ayesha was taken away from her and she moved to the graveyard. More than anything else losing Ayesha broke her heart . . .
It is true that Mona has lost all of her glory, as she says. She used to be the self-appointed empress of Turkman Gate, but once she left the eunuchs, people turned their eyes away from her. In the graveyard where she now lives in a house built on her ancestor's graves, she is building a palace. The swimming pool has already been dug out, but I have managed to convince her that even a waterfall and a swimming pool will not make people want to rent the marriage hall she wanted to build. She also considered starting a pickle factory in the empty pool, employing Muslim women who had nowhere to go. She would call them "Ahmed Pickles" . . .
Forever full of new ideas, Mona would now like to convert the palace she initially built for Ayesha into an orphanage for Muslim girls, so she would be the mother of a hundred children, not just one...
Yet, finally her inner loneliness is eating her up, the feeling that she belongs nowhere, an outcast among the outcastes. When I tell her that she is such a unique person, that she would be a misfit in any society because of her very unique point of view, she is not convinced. She claims that if she were wealthy like me, she would be accepted in society.
When I once asked her if she would like to go to Singapore for a sex change operation, she told me, ``You really do not understand. I am the third sex, not a man trying to be a woman. It is your society's problem that you only recognise two sexes.'' Although later she told me that she was probably the first person in India on whom a doctor had tried to perform a surgical sex change (which is still illegal in India) . . .
'I chose this cake for Ayesha because I love to sit on a ship, and water all around makes me feel good.'
Over the years, I photographed her off and on, with no intention of ever publishing the photographs. It was only many years later, after Mona was thrown out of the eunuch's community and she became an outcast among the outcastes, that she told me that she wanted to tell her own story. She was now living in a double exile, and started to question her identity in a way that was completely new to me. She wanted to tell the story of being neither here nor there, neither male nor female, and finally, neither a eunuch nor someone like me. She would always ask me, ``Tell me: what am I?'' I first assumed that a writer would have to tell her story, but after she dictated me some e-mails, I realised that I probably underestimated her and that she could tell her own story, weaving together fact and fiction . . .
As I now am thinking about which city and country I would like to live in, what kind of home and family I would like to have, my two main concerns are my own photography, which is profoundly rooted in India, and my dearest friend Mona. More than my mother, more than my friends and my sisters, it is Mona I worry about. Yet, unique as she is, she will probably react in a way that will take me by surprise and make me realise once more that I underestimated her generous mind.
Myself Mona Ahmed published by Scalo with text by Mona Ahmed and an introduction by Dayanita Singh.
Distributed by Thames and Hudson.
Pictures by Dayanita Singh.
* * *
Dear Mr. Walter
HAPPY New Year and what blessing shall I give you — for long life, for success in work, good health, or happy family life?
The happiest day in my whole life was when Ayesha came into my life, because then I felt that I belonged to this society.
I first saw Ayesha when she was 4-days old. Her grandmother placed her in my arms. The grandmother then left, and Ayesha's birthmother had died while giving birth. The grandmother was my friend, and since no one wanted the child, they left Ayesha with me. They were very poor people, and no one wanted to bring up this child. The husband had already left the mother while the mother was pregnant . . .
When I took Ayesha in my arms, I felt complete. My first reaction was tremendous fear, and I could not sleep all night, thinking, "How will I bring up this child alone?" But when she was in my arms, I felt a happiness of a very different kind. I felt she was already part of me, that I was now responsible for her . . .
I distributed sweets in the whole neighbourhood and recited the azaan (Muslim player) in her ears and had her head shaved, as is the custom here. At night, we had a music party. I danced with joy, knowing that I was now a complete woman. All the eunuchs of my group were very happy for me. We were 4 eunuchs who used to live with our guru Chaman in one house. They all helped me to raise Ayesha. On her first birthday, she got many books and copies as presents. She was very interested in reading and writing. I kept many tutors to teach her English, Hindi, Urdu, the Quoran sharif (Quoran lessons), and then I admitted her to a school when she was 3 years old.
I had thought a lot for her. I wanted to make her an IAS officer, or any other respectable profession. Because I wanted her to be independent and not to have to depend on some man for her living . . .
I used to look at Ayesha and wonder how it could be when she married and went to another home. How I would be able to cope with this separation . . .
When Ayesha was 4 years old, and I felt she was running more often to the other eunuchs in the house, I took to drinking, but I did not know what a serious problem the drinking would become. I used to run away to the graveyard where my ancestors were buried. Between drinking and running to the graveyard, my whole life went upside down. Then Chaman sold our house, when we had gone to Ajmer Sharif. I returned and had nowhere to go, so I moved to the graveyard, and Chaman took Ayesha away with her . . .
I have no peace or calm left in me. The bigger Ayesha has become, the more she has started to hate me. I cannot bear it when she runs away from me, even if she is being taught this by the people she lives with . . .
I hope there will be a better life for me. With this hope I live. Those same people will call me good someday. Perhaps with your book people will understand me better. Please make the book fast, I am waiting.
Myself
Mona Ahmed
* * *
Dear Mr. Walter
I CONSTANTLY think, "Why did God make eunuchs?" A mother has 4 children, why is just one a eunuch? Of course, it is from God, but why does only one boy feel he wants to dress like a woman? What this is, I do not understand. No one can explain this question . . .
A eunuch has a male body, but the spirit is female. Why does it happen? No one becomes a eunuch by choice, meaning no one says, "I want to be a eunuch." . . .
If God came in front of me, I would ask him, "Why did you make me like this; why did you make me born if you had to make me born as the third sex? And if you did make me the third sex, why did you not ensure respect in society for us?" . . .
Eunuchs are the way they are because they leave their home place, their city of birth, and go to a new place, because no one knows them in the new place. In Delhi there must be only 50 eunuchs who were born in Delhi, the rest are all from outside. This gives them, I feel, a lot of courage and they remain happy. But because I was unable to leave my birth place, or even my mohalla, so I can't be successful in happiness. In my family area I have to dress as a man, in other areas as a woman.
Yet a eunuch cannot remain in his family, because he is different in his manners, gestures, feelings, which are more like women's. So even if he marries and has children, he still does not get respect in society. There are many such cases in Delhi: they have no castration, get married, and yet society taunts them and their wives.
'When I feel like dying... Dayanita arrives to give love and encouragement.'
Today I also feel that eunuchs are an underground society. Nobody has reached the bottom of this, nor will they ever be able to. They have their own rules and do not listen to judges or the police. They have their own government. Those who do not obey them are thrown out of their community. This is why no researcher can get the true story of the eunuchs' life. All the books just take one point, be it some celebration of the eunuchs or their castration, but no one can understand what it is like to live in a family that is created because of being a eunuch. 8 people in one eunuch family, all different blood, different mind, different parents, and yet, we have to manage together . . .
All eunuchs like to stay in touch with the other eunuchs. It does not matter that they are from Pakistan or southern India; to us, they are just other eunuchs. I do not know if there are national meetings, but when there is a gathering, other eunuchs can join. In a way, the national meetings used to be at Ayesha's birthday parties, when eunuchs would come from all over. Almost 800-900 eunuchs from Pakistan, Bangladesh, and India would gather.
Recently, many eunuchs are joining politics, because we are also the Indian people and want to be heard by everyone . . .
Everyone who meets a eunuch, meets him for some purpose of their own, either it is money or to write articles about eunuchs, to find out what a eunuch is like inside, which we do not tell. So much research was done in all fields, but on eunuchs there is no research. In villages they are gifts of God; in cities they are men trying to be women, but no one has access to their souls. Everyone makes their own little theories and no proper research. Some call us a man, some call us homos, some go to the Gujarat temple and think they have understood us. So many people have come to ask me about my life story from when I was young, but I have not told anyone. It is the first time I am telling my story, because I know you will write it the way I want and will not add spice to sell . . .
I want this to be the only book about my life. Then there are journalists who are always writing made-up stories about eunuchs, because everyone is so curious about us. But the eunuchs do not like to tell their story to anyone outside the community . . .
I wanted to serve all of society, not just eunuchs, with love and respect, but now that I have no money, and I do not like journalists, now no one likes me. This makes me very sad. I am thankful to you, Mr. Walter, that you will tell our truth. At least, my truth will be told . . .
Blessings
Myself
Mona Ahmed
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