The Child from the Dustbin

A Short Story
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Evening was quietly settling in. Seated in his office, Prakash Singh—known in the underworld as Hijra Dada—stretched his arms and let out a tired yawn. A faint smile of satisfaction played on his lips. And why wouldn’t it? Memories from a decade ago surfaced, reminding him how far he had come.

Though widely known as Hijra dada, he himself was not a transgender. He was not born with silver spoon in mouth.When his son Basant was born, he hadn’t even had a few coins to buy milk for the child . His wife Suguna possessed nothing more than a pair of glass bangles—no gold, no savings. The family survived on alternate days of hunger and food. Yet today, here he was in Delhi, counting himself among the successful.Not far from Yamuna Vihar stood his lavish bungalow, built on half an acre of land. Separate quarters housed his staff, and a carefully nurtured flower garden bloomed within the compound. All this had become possible only after he stepped into a forbidden world.

He was no thief or dacoit. He had never dealt in drugs or liquor. Instead, he had organized a group of nearly fifty transgender people and, with their help, extracted money from the wealthy. Whenever a child was born or a wedding or religious ceremony was planned, news reached him in advance. His team would arrive uninvited, clap loudly, shower blessings in return for money—and they were rarely refused.
Bus stands, temples, railway stations—every public place was a hunting ground. The art of clapping, chanting, and cornering people into paying was taught meticulously from the first day of recruitment. These social rituals brought easy money.But the real profits came after dark.
From small lodges to luxury hotels, the demand for sex work was enormous—often more than Prakash could supply. At times, even he wondered at the strange psychology of the society: such hunger, such obsession with flesh by the elite even for the transgenders perplexed him !!!

Some members of his group had been collected bt his people when they were found wandering at railway stations. Few had been picked up from roadside dustbins, they being the babies abandoned at birth for being different. Others were not born transgender at all; they had been forcibly altered through surgery to push them in to the flesh trade.

Hijra Dada provided them shelter and food. Delhi was a city of illusions, and within it, this business was perhaps the greatest illusion of all.

Running it, however, was not easy for Prakash Singh.The police had to be paid off regularly. The Police knew everything—where children were operated on, where abandoned infants were collected from and  which hotels were dealing with such trade, but every truth lay buried under thick layers of bribery.

That evening, something unexpected happened.Ranu Didi, one of the senior members of the group, arrived carrying a newborn baby she had rescued from a dustbin outside Safdarjung Hospital.
Annoyed, Hijra Dada snapped,
“Ranu, where did you bring this trouble from without asking me ?”
She replied gently,
“The baby was crying helplessly in the dustbin. I couldn’t leave it there. Its one of our type Dada, its a transgender .Don’t worry, Dada—I’ll raise the child. We all will.”
Hijra Dada looked closely. The baby was fair, glowing—like a child born into wealth. A flicker of pity stirred in him and he thought --Good, when the child grows up, it will earn well.He allowed Ranu to raise the child and himself was prepared to deal with any problem connected with the matter.

Then after few minutes , Ranu rushed back in.“Dada, a woman is waiting outside. She’s crying uncontrollably. She might be the child’s mother.”
“Send her in, said Dada.
A well-dressed, graceful woman entered. From her appearance, it was clear she belonged to a respectable, affluent family. She collapsed at Hijra Dada’s feet and pleaded,
“Please have mercy. Give me back my child.”
Dada responded coldly,
“The child we rescued is a transgender baby. What makes you think it’s yours?”
Through tears, she said,
“I am a doctor. My husband is a senior government officer. When the baby was born, he panicked—afraid of social shame—and threw the child into a dustbin. After learning from a corrupt policeman that your people had rescued the baby, I came running.”
Hijra Dada asked sharply,
“So your husband has had a change of heart? What guarantee is there he won’t abandon the child again? Why put the baby’s life at risk? Here, the child will grow among its own people, with acceptance. In your society, what will it receive except ridicule?”
The woman replied firmly,
“Dada, as a doctor I know this condition is caused by hormonal imbalance in the womb. With early treatment—surgery and proper hormone therapy—the child can grow into a complete boy or girl. This has been successfully done in our country. I will give my child a clear identity and a dignified life. Please, have mercy.”
“And your husband?” he asked.
“Will he accept the child?”
“That doesn’t matter,” she said quietly.
“If needed, I will leave my husband . I will create a world for my child myself. A child is a priceless pearl—how can anyone throw a pearl into a garbage bin?”
Silence filled the room.
After a long pause, Hijra Dada turned to Ranu.“Give the child back to its mother.”
As Ranu placed the baby into the woman’s arms, tears streamed down her face. In just few hours the child from the dustbin had created bonds too deep to explain. The mother wept with joy, showering kisses on the newborn. The baby nestled into her chest, searching for warmth and love.
All the transgender members gathered together and began singing their traditional blessing song.
Even Hijra Dada’s stone-hard heart softened and his eyes were moist with tears.

(K. Sarangi)