The Tree, the Well & the Drag Queen blends folklore, myth and magic with a contemporary exploration of gender identity as it follows a queer person’s quest for freedom and authenticity.
‘Today, we have a very special performance. Put your hands together for Dhamini, the drag queen!’ my boss made a special announcement that evening. Dhamini emerged from behind the velvet curtain, waving her hand and flashing an enchanting smile. She wore a red silk sari and heavy ornaments. Her waist-long hair cascaded like a waterfall. A slow Hindi film song flowed into the pub, and Dhamini started moving.
I stood awestruck, holding a tray of margaritas, watching Dhamini lip-sync to Hindi songs. A thunderbolt descended on me, charging every cell in my body, the same sensation I’d felt when I first saw Kelu Ashaan on stage. The music accelerated, and Dhamini started twirling. My breath stopped. My body began to heat up.
The music reached its final octaves, and Dhamini acquired tremendous speed, transforming herself into a glinting column of colour and sparkle. My body was on fire; my skin melted inside my black waistcoat. Leaving the tray of margaritas unattended on the bar counter, I ran to the utility room and slammed the door behind me. I tore my waistcoat off, unbuttoned my shirt and sat on the floor, huffing and puffing.
‘Give a huge round of applause for Dhamini, the lightning!’ I heard the voice of the emcee, followed by thunderous clapping. A few minutes later, my body cooled down. I put on my clothes again and headed to the bar. Dhamini had already left the stage.
‘Where the hell did you go?’ the bartender barked at me.
Later that night, when the pub was almost empty, I overheard a conversation between my boss and his friend.
‘Wow! I didn’t know there were drag performers in India!’
‘Not many, but the trend has definitely started. There are only a handful of performers in Mumbai. The police often sniff out their shows and harass them. So, they lay low and do quick shows like this,’ my boss said.
‘He was gorgeous on the stage,’ the friend said.
‘No… not “he”. Dhamini uses the pronoun “they”.’
‘Oh, I thought a drag queen meant a man who dresses up as a woman. Isn’t it like that?’
‘No, no. There aren’t any rules like that. Anyone can be a drag queen. It’s an art form and not specific to any gender,’ my boss corrected.
‘So, Dhamini… Are they a trans woman?’ the friend asked after a few vodka shots. I listened intently, thankful for his vodka-induced inquisitiveness.
‘Dhamini’s drag persona is a woman, but outside drag, they are a gender non-conforming person. Their gender is distinct from a man or a woman.’
‘I… I don’t understand. Isn’t everyone either a man or a woman? Or… Maybe a mix of both in varying degrees?’ the friend asked.
‘No, not necessarily. Hmm… how will I explain it to you? Let me see… Ok, you are a painter, right? So, what if someone tells you that you can use only three colours to paint the sky? White, blue and black or a mix of these colours. You’ll immediately say it’s ridiculous. The case with genders is like that. If we can accept infinite colours of the sky, why can’t we accept infinite possibilities of genders?’
For a long while, the friend sat there, gulping shot after shot of vodka.
Listening to them, my heart did a somersault. During my childhood, Appa kept saying that I would grow up to be a powerful man. It gave me nightmares to imagine myself as a man with a big moustache and bulging biceps. And, all these years, I knew that I wasn’t a man or a woman, but I thought it wasn’t allowed, and I would be punished for it. Instead of embracing my truth, I was terrified of it and fought it all the time. I pretended to be someone I wasn’t so that I could survive, be accepted, even be loved. Listening to my boss, a fire that was long extinguished started crackling in the pit of my stomach.
Soon, Dhamini became the star attraction of our pub. The news of their show spread like wildfire, and people flocked from every part of the city to have a glimpse of Dhamini. Everyone enjoyed the shows, but I couldn’t. Whenever I saw Dhamini on the stage, a deep yearning, like a thirst to drink up an entire ocean, would overwhelm me. The desire would slowly coil around my body, tightening its grip as Dhamini’s performance reached its climax. My body burned, my heart raced, and my head felt light. I would stand there paralysed, unable to respond to the bartender’s frantic calls or the patrons’ desperate gestures for my attention.
I realised that watching Dhamini could cost me my job. So, whenever they performed, I would make some excuse and retreat to the utility room at the back of the bar. I would sit on the floor, my fingers pressed into my ears, but I couldn’t shut the music out. I would shake my head as if to fend off an evil spirit, but to no avail. Being a drag queen was the perfect bundle of everything I ever wanted – music, dance, dresses, makeup, and fun.
My heart was like hardened soil where no dreams could sprout. Dhamini’s performances showered on my heart like a roaring monsoon, ploughing the soil, loosening it up and making it fertile again. In that damp soil, a seed germinated: a desire to be myself. The power of that desire terrified me. Like a flame attracting a moth to its death, I feared Dhamini’s influence would blow my cover and ruin my life.
Dhamini gained a lot of fans in the pub, and soon, my boss started collecting a cover charge to enter the pub during their shows. Our business looked up. It was amazing how one person could turn our rundown pub into the most happening place in the neighbourhood. Not that everyone came in good spirits. There were incidents of people trying to shame and harass Dhamini on stage. But Dhamini was unfazed. Night after night, they ravished the audience. As our pub’s reputation spread, the police and building officials descended on us like wolves sniffing out blood.
‘It’s for closing our eyes towards your illegal activities here,’ they said, demanding their ‘cut’ of our profit. ‘Pay up, or you and your eunuch will be in jail,’ the police threatened my boss when he refused to pay up after a few times.
‘We aren’t doing anything illegal here. Is singing and dancing illegal?’ my boss retorted, sending them back empty-handed. They didn’t return for a few days; we thought they had spared us. But we were wrong. They retaliated by conducting a full-on raid, warrant and all.
It was a Friday evening. The pub was jam-packed. Dhamini was performing on the stage, and I, as usual, had retreated to the utility room. Suddenly, I heard a commotion, shouts, and cries from inside the pub. I rushed out of the room and saw the police driving the crowd out of the pub with their lathis. Braving the chaos, Dhamini kept singing louder and louder. Two constables climbed onto the stage and tried to snatch the mic from Dhamini’s hands. They resisted, and in the struggle, their wig fell onto the stage, exposing their bald head. One of them caught hold of Dhamini’s sari and yanked at it, and the sari came undone, leaving Dhamini in blouse and petticoat. I rushed to help, but before I could get onto the stage, a lathi knocked me down.
When I regained consciousness, the pub was deserted. Some people were lying on the floor, most of them bleeding and bruised, some unconscious. I dragged myself to the bartender, who was lying near the stage. ‘They took boss and Dhamini away,’ he mumbled.
I climbed onto the stage and picked up Dhamini’s golden wig. It felt like holding onto a part of my lost soul. I knew they would take Dhamini to the local police station. I collected my savings and dashed out.
My heart broke when I saw Dhamini inside the lockup, their clean-shaven head, torn clothes, and smudged makeup. I bribed the sentry, went to the lock-up, and gave Dhamini the wig. With a bitter smile, they took it from me and wore it once again. My boss was pacing the next cell like a wounded animal. When he saw me, his eyes bulged with surprise. He called me over and whispered a number into my ear. ‘Remember this number and call them. They’ll help us.’ Chanting the number, I ran to the nearby public telephone booth.
In the next hour, a lawyer arrived at the station and had heated discussions with the police. I didn’t understand much, but I kept hearing the word ‘Article 377’. After much back and forth, the lawyer managed to bail out my boss and Dhamini in the wee hours. I knew my job was done there, and I should get back to the bar before my boss started asking questions. But before I could, he came to me and whispered, ‘Talk to Dhamini. I know you want to.’ His kindness teared me up.
Dhamini had already walked out of the station.
I followed them closely.
After a while, Dhamini turned around, arms akimbo, and asked, ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
‘I…I… I work at the pub, and I…’
‘I haven’t seen you in the pub,’ Dhamini muttered.
‘I… I usually don’t see your performance. I get uncomfortable seeing you… Your show,’ I said, and the next moment, I realised it was a blunder.
‘Oh…ok. I get it. So, what do you want? Why are you following me?’ Dhamini demanded.
‘No, no… It’s not like that,’ I blurted out, wondering how to make Dhamini understand. ‘I love what you do. I do. I want to be… I am like… It’s a long story. I don’t think you want to know it,’ I said. My throat turned dry, and my heart raced.
‘Well, I am walking back to my place. A story won’t hurt,’ Dhamini said, a beautiful smile sprouting on their tired face.
So, I talked about my home, childhood, and Appa; about shame, ridicule, and torture. I spoke about how much I enjoyed being in the company of girls, dressing up, dancing and singing. I told them about Kelu Ashaan and my association with the drama group. I spoke about my fugitive life, what the chicken shop owner did to me, the series of abuses and harassment that followed, and how I started pretending to be a man. The dawn bled into the morning sky, turning it a deep orange, and I felt that the sky was awash with my heart’s blood.
‘After seeing you perform, I have this urge to go on stage and perform, just like you do. Not just to perform, I want to wear clothes I like, walk, and talk the way I like. I… I want to feel good about myself, but I am… I am scared of what people will do to me…’ I blurted out.
‘I understand where your fear comes from. The world keeps reminding us that we are different. We annoy them, you know, by just being ourselves, just by walking down the street, just by singing or dancing. I don’t know why they get so flustered seeing someone different from them. They think I dress in flashy clothes to attract attention; I walk and talk like a woman to stand out. They don’t understand it’s not something I am “doing”, it’s who I am. The last thing I want is for them to gawk at me. Why is it always about them? You being you and me being me is about them and their inconvenience. People have told me that it’s okay if I keep my “act” to the stage and behave like a normal person offstage. By normal, they mean “be a man or a woman”. But I am neither. Drag isn’t just a dress-up for me. It’s not a costume. It is an extension of my true self. I came out on the stage first, and it gave me the courage to come out into the world. I think the stage is the ideal place for you to start.’
‘So, can anyone perform drag? Aren’t there any rules?’
‘You are so wound up by rules, eh? Na, there are no rules. You don’t need a reason. Some people do drag for fun, others to make a statement, and yet others to entertain or make money. Har kisi ki kahani alag, har wajah sahi!’ Dhamini’s laughter cracked like a whip in the air. A flock of pigeons roosting on the window sills flew away, just like many of my misconceptions.
‘I want to be up on that stage like you. But…I…I don’t know… I don’t know if it’s worth the trouble. I don’t know if I have the courage, like you, to get arrested and all. How are you so brave?’ I asked.
‘I am not as brave as you think, but I can’t keep lying to myself. Once I got onto that stage and performed, once I realised how peaceful it is to live as your true self, I couldn’t give it up for anything. Some people don’t get me, and there could be days, like today. But there are some others who help me stand up every time I fall down, my community, and people like your boss. I have myself and people who love me. That gives me courage.’ Dhamini paused for a while, then she looked at me. ‘So, what do you think? Do you want to try drag?’
The sun was up in the sky, a blazing orange ball of fire. Dhamini’s question gleamed against the morning light as if it was embossed in golden letters. Seconds passed by, and the question loomed in front of me, enveloping my whole being. It felt like my entire life had been leading up to this moment, and the answer to this question could change everything forever.
‘Yes. Will you teach me?’
‘Arrey waah! I will teach you, pakka! You’ll make a jhakaas drag queen.’ Dhamini’s face glowed with happiness. My eyes overflowed as we hugged, two human beings, nothing less, nothing more.
Dhamini’s shows resumed, and the police didn’t bother us anymore. After our conversation, I could watch their shows without feeling strangled. Whenever I saw Dhamini on stage, I imagined myself in their place, and my chest swelled with joy.