“My parents said they would accept me on two conditions - no begging and no prostitution. Now I work with NGOs and community members to improve the lives of people like me and I have a good relationship with my family,” said Lavania. We were speaking outside the Koothandavar temple in Koovagam, a small village that attracts up to 200,000 visitors for its annual festival. Like Lavania, many who come to participate in re-enacting the story of the god Aravan, are hijra, sometimes called eunuchs or kinnars. In India they are recognised in law as a third gender. Most adopt female dress and behaviour and traditionally earn a living by collecting alms and giving musical performances at weddings, births and festivals. During the Mughal period some held high positions in court and would be called upon for advice on religious matters or to give blessings during important ceremonies.
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| Lavania |
In the Mahabharata, a narbali, or human sacrifice was required to appease the goddess Kali before the start of a war. Aravan volunteered himself but did not wish to die a virgin. The gods Arjuna and Krishna are unable to find a wife for him as no woman wished to become a widow the day after her marriage. Krishna assumed the form of Mohini, a woman, and married Aravan. The next day the groom was sacrificed to Kali and his body cut into 32 pieces. The goddess then blessed Arjun with victory and Mohini grieved and followed the rituals of widowhood. The festival re-enacts this story.
I met Lavania on the first day of the festival when thousands waited to enter the temple to take part in a ceremony that would see them “married” to Aravan. Many were hijra, but perhaps half were villagers including men, women and children. Devotees emerged from the temple wearing bangles and a thali (also known as a mangalsutra), the necklace worn by married women to ward off the evil eye. Outside the temple and in the village streets, crowds gathered to take part in various pooja (rituals) and to receive blessings from the hijra. Small fires were started and the hijra circled the flames, clapping and chanting in a form of call and response. The villagers watched closely while clutching small gifts and financial donations to give in return for advice and blessings.
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| Waiting to enter the temple to marry Aravan |
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| Village craftsmen receiving blessings for a hijra guru |
Other pooja involve animal sacrifice. A group of men arrived leading a young goat to the open ground outside the temple. A small crowd gathered around to watch a priest as he covered the goat with turmeric and said prayers over it. When the prayer was finished, one of the men stepped forward and slit the goat’s throat. It struggled for a moment and was then still, its blood spreading on the ground. I was assured that this was an honour for the goat who would be reincarnated as a higher being.
The conditions laid down by Lavania’s family may seem strange, but they reflect the lives of many of the community, who unable to secure employment, make a living by begging in the street or through prostitution. Very slowly this is changing, and Lavania is one of a growing number of hijra who now work in mainstream jobs. In Mumbai I met community members working in catering and as beauticians. One was a law student. The day before the festival began I met Suganiya who said: “I have a job, I work in an office.” She agreed to be photographed but asked: “Shall I change my sari first?” “No need,” I replied, “You look fine as you are.”
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| Suganiya |
The first day of the festival was joyful and the mood celebratory. In the morning and early afternoon the craftsmen of four local villages continued their work on making an idol to represent Aravan. Each village makes different sections of the god which are then assembled and mounted on a wooden chassis. I watched the Koovagam artisans painting their section. One of the temple priests encouraged them to: “make it beautiful.” In the evening there were theatrical performances, concerts, a fair, fashion shows and a beauty contest. The crowds made it impossible for vehicles to reach the village and participants had to walk a few kilometres along a dusty road to get there. I spent some time watching a talent show. Hijra performers sang and danced to popular film songs, cheered on by an audience of thousands. Reporters from local radio and television stations filmed the activity and carried out interviews amongst the crowd.
The second day was more emotional. The crowds grew bigger and the narrow village streets became harder to negotiate. Dozens of devotees pulled the idol, stopping every hundred metres or so, as people called on the priests to shower them with garlands, dropped from the pinnacle. Parents surged forward to hand babies and small children up to the priests who gave blessings before carefully passing them back down. The road is uneven and when the idol rocked precariously from side to side, the crowds pressed back against houses to avoid being crushed. Hundreds of police officers were on duty to maintain order, the size of the crowd, their religious fervour and the extreme heat (it was 43 degrees and humid) making their work harder. Despite this, they remained calm, and the crowd co-operative. “There won’t be a lathi (baton) charge today,” said Vinodkumar, my guide and interpreter.
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| The idol being pulled through the village |
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| Calling for blessings from the idol |
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| “My husband must go to war, he is a great warrior" |
Many people left the chaos of the street and took refuge on the rooftops. At one home the residents invited me to join them. Their roof was almost level with the head of the idol. Down below, the hijra continued to sing, dance and perform pooja. One group circled a fire, clapping, alternately leaning towards and away from the flame and singing a song about Aravan: “My husband must go to war, he is a great warrior, but I don’t want him to fight, I too have many qualities, he should stay at home with me.” Others threw pieces of coconut into a fire and said prayers over them. The villagers edged closer to the flames and when the chanting was finished, some leaped forward, hoping to pull pieces of coconut from the fire, believing they will bring prosperity and protection. Coconuts featured in another pooja. A hijra guru said prayers over a flame, then her followers aggressively hurled the fruit at the ground, in the belief that they were destroying negative energy. Again, the crowd tried to gather the pieces, the pushing and shoving causing several to fall to the ground.
For a while I remained on the roof, photographing the activity below. Someone call out in English: “Hey camera man! Take my picture!” I looked for the source of the request and saw a hijra looking up, lips pursed and hands on hips. As I pointed the camera, others began calling out, posing, blowing kisses and making heart shapes. The crowd cheered. When I came down from the roof someone else called out with a different request. “Buy me an ice-cream,” said Ramiya, who sat in the shade rubbing her feet. “What flavour do you want? Come with me and choose,” I replied. “Any flavour will do. My feet are too sore to walk,” she said. A vendor was offering ice-cream on a stick for a few rupees. I bought two for Ramiya, who then posed for a portrait.
I left Ramona and followed the procession of the idol out of the village and into the fields. The rough ground made its progress even less stable and at one point the police became more rigorous, forcing the crowds to one side for their own safety. The idol would soon be destroyed - re-enacting the death of Aravan. Those who had married the god the previous day, broke their bangles and waited in line for a priest to cut the thali from their neck, leaving the ground covered with symbols of widowhood
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| “Hey camera man take my picture" |
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| Broken bangles and discarded thalis |
During the second day, some of the hijra changed their clothes, donning the white sari customary of Hindu widows. Shenpagavali wore a white sari and asked me to photograph her, before telling her story: “I am 72 years old and I come from Kanjipuram village. I lived with a man for fifty years but he died last year and now I am alone. There were 12 children in my family. After my father died I came out. My family accept me and some of them came to the festival with me. I make a living by collecting donations at local shops and by doing small jobs for an NGO. People don’t give me trouble. I do not drink, smoke or take part in sexual activities. I come to the festival every year to pray that next year will be better. I studied to grade 12 but left home at 12 years of age. My guru has 20 chelas (students), but I don’t have any followers.” I saw Shenpagavali again later that day. As I left the village for the final time, I looked back and saw her. She had changed back into colourful clothe and danced alone to the music being played in the temple grounds.
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| Shenpagavali |
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