Close Encounters of the Third Sex: The Hijras of India — A Traveler’s Narrative

✈️ The First Moment Was Not What I Expected

I stood barefoot on cracked red earth outside a modest compound in Hyderabad’s Old City, heart pounding—not from heat or exhaustion, but from the quiet intensity of being seen. A woman in saffron-and-gold sari met my gaze without flinching, her kohl-rimmed eyes holding mine for three full seconds before she smiled, not with politeness, but recognition. Her name was Meera, and she was a hijra. In that instant, I understood: this wasn’t tourism. This was invitation—and it demanded humility, not curiosity. Close encounters of the third sex—the hijras of India—don’t unfold on schedules or in photo ops. They happen only when you pause long enough to listen, sit low enough to share chai, and move slowly enough to earn trust. If you’re planning such an encounter, go prepared—not with a camera first, but with questions you’re ready to have answered about your own assumptions.

🌍 The Setup: Why I Went There

I’d spent six weeks traveling across Rajasthan and Tamil Nadu, documenting everyday life in small towns for a personal archive of South Asian vernacular architecture. My itinerary was pragmatic: trains booked, guesthouses confirmed, notebooks filled with sketches of stepwells and temple gopurams. But something felt incomplete—like watching a film with half the soundtrack muted. I kept noticing groups of people at temple entrances, wedding gates, and hospital courtyards: figures draped in bright silks, faces painted with precision, voices resonant and commanding. Locals called them hijra, sometimes aravani in Tamil Nadu, kinnar in Hindi-speaking regions. They blessed newborns, performed at marriages, and sang at funerals—but rarely appeared in guidebooks beyond footnotes labeled “third gender” or “traditional performers.”

I didn’t set out to “find” hijras. That phrasing already implied ownership. Instead, I asked two local researchers—both affiliated with Hyderabad-based NGOs working on gender-inclusive health access—where one might ethically observe community life without intrusion. They gave me names, not addresses: Meera, who ran a small tailoring cooperative; Rajesh, a former schoolteacher now mentoring youth in Secunderabad; and Laxmi, who coordinated weekly legal aid clinics. No contact numbers. No fixed meeting times. Just a reminder: “They decide the terms. You bring time, not questions.”

🎭 The Turning Point: When My Plan Collapsed

My first attempt ended in silence. I arrived at the designated lane near Charminar at 10 a.m., notebook open, recorder switched off but ready. Three hijras sat under a neem tree, sorting marigolds for an upcoming wedding. I sat nearby on a worn stone bench, bought chai from the vendor next door, and waited. After forty minutes, one glanced over—not unkindly, but with unmistakable weariness. She said nothing. Another adjusted her bangle with a sigh. I left after an hour, notebook blank, throat tight.

That evening, over dosas at a vegetarian stall, a young journalist named Ananya explained what I’d misread: “You showed up like a researcher checking off a box. But hijras aren’t specimens. They’re neighbors, artisans, advocates—and they’ve been photographed, quoted, and spoken over for decades. Your silence wasn’t respectful. It was passive. Real respect means showing up ready to be redirected—to wash dishes, fold saris, or translate a medical form.”

The next morning, I returned—not with a notebook, but with two kilos of jaggery, a bag of ground turmeric, and a request: “Can I help prepare for today’s blessings?”

🤝 The Discovery: Learning by Doing

Meera accepted the jaggery without fanfare. She handed me a wooden mortar and pestle and pointed to a pile of dried ginger root. “Grind until it’s fine. Not too wet. We need powder for the barat sweets.” For ninety minutes, I crushed, sifted, and wiped sweat from my brow while she taught me how to tie a gajra—a floral crown—for brides-to-be. Her fingers moved with practiced speed; mine fumbled, petals falling into the dust. She laughed—not at me, but with me—and re-threaded the jasmine stem without reproach.

Later, as we walked toward the wedding venue, she spoke quietly: “People think ‘hijra’ means one thing. But we’re teachers, drivers, nurses, clerks. Some live with families. Some run cooperatives. Some are celibate. Some raise children. The law says we’re a third gender—but that doesn’t mean we’re all the same.” She paused beside a crumbling wall covered in peeling posters advertising government pension schemes and HIV testing camps. “The real problem isn’t visibility. It’s dignity in daily life.”

That afternoon, I watched Meera lead a blessing ceremony—not with chants or incense, but with storytelling. She wove tales of Lakshmi’s generosity and Shiva’s transformation, linking each to resilience, choice, and sacred ambiguity. Guests listened—not as spectators, but as participants. A grandmother pressed folded rupees into Meera’s palm; a groom’s uncle offered her a seat at the head table. No performance. Just presence.

Over the next ten days, I accompanied Meera to her tailoring unit—a repurposed schoolroom where seven women stitched blouses and repaired uniforms. I helped log inventory, translated a government application form for subsidized fabric, and sat through a tense mediation between two members over shared sewing machine time. I saw frustration, negotiation, laughter, fatigue—ordinary human rhythms, not exotic spectacle.

🚌 The Journey Continues: Beyond Hyderabad

From Hyderabad, I traveled by overnight bus to Bangalore—not to “see more hijras,” but to understand structural context. At Sangama, a well-established LGBTQIA+ rights organization, I attended a public forum on the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act, 2019. The discussion wasn’t theoretical. A hijra lawyer named Priya dissected gaps between policy and practice: how identity cards still require district-level affidavits that many can’t afford; how police stations routinely misgender applicants; how vocational training programs remain segregated by binary categories.

I also visited a community-run shelter in Kolar, outside Bangalore. Run entirely by hijra elders, it housed twelve young people who’d been disowned or fled abusive homes. One resident, 19-year-old Arjun, showed me his sketchbook—detailed pencil portraits of his mother, his childhood home, and Meera’s face, rendered with startling tenderness. He’d never shown them to anyone outside the shelter. “They don’t ask if I’m ‘really’ a girl or boy,” he said, closing the book gently. “They ask what I want to learn. That’s different.”

Back in Hyderabad, I volunteered at Meera’s legal aid clinic—two hours every Tuesday. Tasks were mundane: photocopying documents, verifying ID card applications, helping draft letters to municipal offices requesting street vendor permits. Nothing dramatic. Everything consequential.

🌅 Reflection: What Changed Wasn’t My Itinerary—It Was My Lens

I used to believe ethical travel meant minimizing harm: no plastic, fair wages, low-impact transport. Important, yes—but insufficient. This trip taught me that ethical travel also means relinquishing narrative control. I’d arrived wanting to document “the hijra experience.” I left having witnessed dozens of distinct, unrepeatable lives—each shaped by caste, region, education, family history, and personal choice. There is no monolithic “hijra experience,” just as there’s no singular “Indian experience.”

I also learned the weight of language. I stopped saying “they identify as” and started saying “they are”—not as grammatical preference, but as ontological acknowledgment. I noticed how often English travel writing flattens complexity: reducing people to adjectives (“mysterious,” “vibrant,” “resilient”) instead of subjects acting in time and space. Meera wasn’t “resilient.” She ran a business, negotiated rent hikes, worried about monsoon flooding in her lane, and loved old Hindi film songs. Resilience was incidental—not identity.

Most quietly, I confronted my own privilege—not just as a foreigner, but as someone whose gender had never been legally contested, whose documents matched lived reality, whose family hadn’t disowned them for existing. That awareness didn’t dissolve into guilt. It settled into responsibility: to amplify, not appropriate; to cite, not claim; to follow, not lead.

📝 Practical Takeaways: Woven Into the Journey

These weren’t lessons delivered in lectures—they emerged from missteps, corrections, and quiet observation:

• 💡Timing matters more than location. Don’t schedule “hijra encounters” like museum visits. In Hyderabad, blessings peak during wedding season (October–March); legal aid clinics operate Tuesdays and Fridays; tailoring units close for festivals like Eid and Diwali. Check local calendars—not tourist guides.
• ☕Bring utility, not gifts. Offering money or clothes risks reinforcing dependency narratives. Instead, bring supplies useful in context: quality thread, durable needles, Hindi/Telugu/English bilingual health pamphlets, or assist with administrative tasks (e.g., typing forms, scanning documents).
• 🗺️Start with institutions—not individuals. Reputable NGOs like Sangama1, Humsafar Trust2, or NALANDA3 offer orientation sessions for visitors. They vet requests carefully and prioritize community consent.
• 📸Photography requires explicit, ongoing consent. Meera told me plainly: “I’ll say yes once. But if you take a photo of me stitching, then turn and shoot my neighbor without asking—that breaks trust. Ask again. Every time.”
• 🚌Public transport reveals daily rhythms. Riding city buses—not taxis—let me observe hijras commuting to work, visiting relatives, running errands. In Bangalore, I noted how many wore ID cards issued under the 2019 Act; in Hyderabad, how often they sat together, sharing snacks, speaking rapidly in code-switched Telugu-Hindi.

⭐ Conclusion: A Shift in Gravity

This trip didn’t change my destination list. It changed my gravity—the center of balance from which I move through unfamiliar places. Before, I measured success by pages filled, photos captured, stories gathered. Now, I measure it by silences held, assumptions named, invitations accepted—and declined—without resentment. Close encounters of the third sex—the hijras of India—don’t offer easy answers. They offer a mirror: reflecting back not just their complexities, but my own limitations, privileges, and capacity for slow, reciprocal attention. Travel, I realized, isn’t about arriving somewhere new. It’s about returning to yourself, slightly less certain—and therefore, finally, more honest.