Fahmida, a khwajasara-beggar

ahmida, like many others in her community, identifies as a khwajasara, a term used in South Asia to describe those who do not conform to traditional gender roles. She says that it makes little difference whether she is referred to as a khwajasara, hijra, khusra, zanana (signifying an ambiguous gender identity) or transvestite. All these labels fall under the broad concept of the ‘third sex’ in the subcontinent, a recognised and culturally distinct group, often bonded together under the guidance of their gurus.

During the day, Fahmida navigates the streets of the city, confined to a specific area, begging as her primary means of survival.

“If a child of the third sex is born into a wealthy family, they can conceal their identity from society, allowing them to lead a relatively secure life,” she says. “Even in middle-class families, the secret can be kept until the child is around eight years old. But for those of us from poor families, where survival depends on finding work at a young age, it is much harder to hide.” As a result, many in her community, like Fahmida, have resorted to begging or prostitution in recent years. This is a shift from earlier times when most khwajasaras earned their livelihoods through singing and dancing at celebratory events, such as weddings or the birth of a child. Gurus would be notified by their apprentices, or chelas, and a group of khwajasaras would descend upon the occasion, receiving payment in return for their performances.

Fahmida reflects on how times have changed. “People were more generous in the past. It’s not as easy to make a living through dancing now; tastes and lifestyles have shifted.” Despite this, she remains grateful. “There’s still enough for all of us. I manage to earn enough to feed myself, buy cosmetics, and purchase clothes,” she adds, emphasising the importance of her appearance.

Dressing up and dancing are integral parts of Fahmida’s life. She resides in a commune with others from her community, where their days follow a similar rhythm. Waking up late after long nights of watching dance videos and practicing routines, she spends a significant portion of her time perfecting her makeup and styling her outfits. “I enjoy experimenting with makeup. Once we’re ready, we board a bus to our usual spot,” she says. Bustling streets and densely populated area offer ample opportunity for her to earn a living.

At around 3:00 pm, Fahmida meets with some friends to share a communal lunch - food they’ve gathered from various places during their day. Afterward, they part ways once more to resume their individual efforts. Her day typically ends between 8.00 and 9.00 pm, when she returns home. Evenings are spent eating dinner, smoking cigarettes, watching more videos, and, of course, dancing. On average, Fahmida says she earns around Rs 2,000 a day, enough to sustain her modest lifestyle while continuing her passion for dressing up and performing.

Janan Noor Nawaz, private-car driver

Clean-shaven, dressed in a shalwar kamees, always with a peak cap perched on his head, rarely missing an opportunity to light a cigarette, Janan Noor Nawaz cuts an unconventional figure for a Pathan. Tall, lean, and in his early fifties, Janan hails from Tokh Sarai, a village near Hangu in the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province.

Janan’s life story is marked by resilience and adaptation. At the tender age of 11, he left Pakistan to join his uncle in Dubai, where he would spend the next 23 years. Fluent in Pashto, Arabic and Urdu, and having a basic grasp of English, Janan’s linguistic skills contrast with his limited formal education - he left school after Class 2 and never learnt to read or write. “I spent most of my childhood in my father’s small shop, selling chana (gram) and moongphali (peanuts) to other children. We had a small piece of land, but it wasn’t enough to feed the family,” he recalls ruefully.

In Dubai, Janan began as a labourer before landing a job as a pipe fitter at the Water Network Maintenance Division of the Dubai Electricity and Water Authority. A self-taught driver with an insatiable curiosity for machines, he became adept at operating road construction equipment, including asphalt pavers, excavators, dump trucks, forklifts and cranes. By the age of 18, he had secured a driving licence in Dubai, preparing meticulously for an oral exam conducted in Arabic by memorising road signs and symbols.

His life took a significant turn when at 15, Janan was called back to his village and married to a girl of the same age. “My elderly mother needed someone to manage the household after my sisters got married,” he explains. A few years later, his mother passed away, his father remarried, and Janan’s young family faced financial challenges. Unable to support them, his father and stepmother sent Janan’s wife and five children to Karachi to live with his brothers.

In 1999, Janan joined them in Karachi. With his savings from Dubai, he purchased a black-and-yellow Sunny taxi, which he drove for five years. Eventually, he sold the taxi to finance his eldest son’s journey to Dubai, where he, too, became a driver. Today, Janan lives in a modest two-room home with a small courtyard in Mahmoodabad, sharing the space with his wife, three daughters, twin sons, his eldest son’s family, and four grandchildren.

Since 2006, Janan has worked as a family driver. His day begins at 6:30 am, with a commute that takes 30-45 minutes in the morning but stretches to an hour or more on his return in Karachi’s congested evenings.

“I’m always on the move. I like to stay busy,” he says. Yet, he admits to one regret; “It would have been so much better if I could read all the billboards and signs,” he sighs, a quiet acknowledgment of the opportunities education might have brought to his remarkable journey.

The writer is an author, illustrator and educator. She may be reached at husain.rumana@gmail.com