Translated fiction: Mohini, a transwoman, prepares for her daughter Disha’s wedding

The wedding is at noon, and Disha leaves for her in-laws’ house before evening. Such a glamorous wedding has perhaps never taken place in the entire region, let alone in this railway colony. The groom is to pass through three gates. A decorator hired from the city set up the stage and three colourful pandals. The houses and yards are adorned with painted paper. Colourful paper flowers and chains beautify the threshold of the ramshackle door and the bamboo fence. Above the entire length and breadth of the yard, red, blue, yellow, and green paper triangles stuck to jute ropes flutter in the wind. In the morning, the mic blares Asif’s “Priya, o priya, tumi kothay” (O love, my love, where are you) from atop the mango tree. Little local urchins are drawn to the tune and grope at the fluttering triangles. Mohini curses them, but their dance does not stop.

And the weather is also pleasant – breezy with the soft spring winds. The manwomen adorn themselves with their unique, colourful attire. A hard-sought affectation of urbanity over their rustic taste has made them even more distinct. Joy is in the air. It is as if a hundred versions of the primordial Rudra Deva have descended upon the earth, each incarnated as a complete human being. They laugh, weep, and feel pain. They embody the eight rasas of ancient drama: humour, pathos, fury, valour, fear, odium, wonder, and serenity; while unmanifested yet alive, the amorous shringāra lay dormant within. Today, they are not relegated to the city’s margins; today, they are the chief guests.

Eminent persons, from politicians to gangsters, including the ward commissioner and the chairman, are present at the wedding. The inevitable dose of turmoil has duly taken place. The local goons had asked for a fee before the wedding, which they had been denied. So they arrived in groups at the feast and ate their fill and then some more. They also wasted a lot of food. But Mohini did not shrink from doing her best as a hostess. At least Disha’s fear of never getting married, which had poked at her ever since she had understood the concept, was over. The girl often asked, “Mother, why don’t you people get married? Everyone else has a father. The father works outside, goes to the market, and buys biscuits. Oh, mother, Beauty said, “You are the daughter of a whore; you will also never get married. Who will marry you?” Mohini has dispelled that fear with all her might. On several nights, she pressed Disha to her heart and said, “Do not worry. I will throw you a gorgeous wedding.” That has come true at last.

The locals were unsurprised to see Mohini weep when they took Disha away. But the outsiders were. How could someone weep thus for an adopted child? Were these people really capable of such love? Mohini was far from being the only one to weep, though. The sisters Lopa, Rupobhan, and Alomala cried tears of joy. Dulu from Hili wept, too, bawling like a baby. A hundred more of the transgender community had moist eyes as they bade the bride farewell. It was as if they had all had a cherished toy for so long, and today, they had lost it, never to find it again.

Then, the house is left with mementoes from the few days of joy. The yellow sari Disha has left; faded garlands of marigold; Chhotku-the-builder’s special hut of hemp; a sagging pandal; the buckets, cauldrons, glasses, dishes, jugs, and mugs from the decorator; the giant furnace lonely by the pond. And there are people in short dhotis dismantling the pandal one bamboo at a time; the snap of plastic chairs being stacked. Many sit around aimlessly, having taken off their best saris and blouses as if dispossessed. The house is suddenly empty when a party of twenty-five or so people leaves for the local train in the evening. Another party leaves a few hours later in the night, leaving the house absolutely quiet.

All evening, Lopa sends back creditors with their due, and Mohini prepares paans with slow hands, seated on her charpoy. In the course of her work, Lopa comes once to ask for a paan. She says “assalamu alaykum,” puts it in her mouth, and is about to turn to leave when she stops. What is this haggard look on Mohini? The bent head does not rise.

Wanly, she says, “Will Disha be able to live without me, Lopa?”

Lopa touches her Guru-ma’s feet in respect and says, “Don’t be sad, Maa. I am here. I will bring Disha back the day after tomorrow. Drink your tea. Don’t be sad.”

The extra festive lamps are gone tonight. The ancient forty-watt bulb glows slightly brighter than a firefly. Is the citrus fragrance of pomelo flowers overwhelming the not-too-distant stench of the cowshed tonight? The moon may be there in the sky, but the Earth receives none of its rays. The wind carries the aroma of the southern paddy fields and the sometimes loud, sometimes faint but constant whirr of a shallow electric tubewell.

Excerpted with permission from Mohini, Nasima Anis, translated from the Bengali by Sarban Bandopadhyay, Antonym Collections.