An edited (and cleaner) version of this piece was published on Vogue India, on June 1, 2023.

India’s first Transgender Employment Mela aims to right some egregious historical wrongs

It is 1999, and a young person, just about to begin the first year of their undergraduate course, has reached a decision. This person, after nearly a month of doubt, fear, half-knowledge and false assumptions, decided that an engineering or other “prestigious” degree would limit their future life, and render them unable to begin all over again if required. You see, this person knew they were transgender. But hadn’t yet told anybody this. The person wanted to transition, change their name, and live as their true self — somewhere in the future. And they were worried that a professional qualification tied to their old, deadname would mean they couldn’t really claim that knowledge with their new, chosen, true name and identity.

In my defence — for this person was me — this was 1999, and I was in Madras that had just become Chennai. I had some interest in writing and felt that a job and a career in advertising, as a copywriter, would allow me to build skills that could survive a name and identity change. And so the decision: to take the most basic of undergraduate degrees, while working part time at advertising agencies to learn on the job.

That decision impacted my life in many ways. I do not regret it, but I do wonder, 25 years on, what I would have done if I had better information and a support network. And what I would have done if there was counselling, and options of careers to choose from, giving me financial stability and a better life.

In short, what would I have done, if in 1999, there was something like the TWEET foundation and MoSJE’s National Transgender Employment Mela?

A version of history tells us that trans people were valued employees in royal palaces and armies. As protectors, as able administrators who could keep the royal household running with limited fuss, as soldiers, as sacred priestesses and priests. Some of us were magical, healers and health-givers. Some of us at some other time in history were loyal keepers of the trust of the society.

Through the years, and through the empires that held sway in this land, the nature and scope of transgender persons and their jobs changed. Colonial imaginations and laws and growing Indian distrust rendered us outlaws. Uncouth, unruly, unnatural, unwanted. And now, unemployable.

Relegated to “traditional” livelihoods: begging, sex work, and a kind of necessary evil at weddings or births. These livelihoods and these livings — often at the very edge of an uncaring society — barely allowed trans folks to keep body and soul together.

In 2014 however, we believed there was some change. The Supreme Court of India, in a landmark verdict in the case of NALSA vs Union of India, recognised that the trans people were humans after all, and the Constitution of India offered us a right to livelihood and a right to dignity in life. The court directed the governments to ensure that these rights of transgender persons are protected and that they — we — had access to education, employment and healthcare.

Already, some trans persons across the country were daring to dream. Many, emboldened by the wave of activism of the late 90s and early 2000s, were attempting to break into services or professions. Not with too much luck, but there were the occasional successes. NGOs that were funded to fight AIDS, saw in trans women valuable social workers and ambassadors. A changing womens’ movement and nascent queer rights movement, learnt that intersectionality was the only way to fight oppression. And were beginning to advocate for equal rights for all. No one is truly free till everyone is.

In many ways, this queer movement is what took us to 2014 and NALSA. Trans people were at the forefront of organising the queer movement, leading from the front at Pride Parades in Chennai, Bengaluru, Kerala, Hyderabad, and sometimes in New Delhi and Mumbai.

Following the NALSA verdict, the Union government tabled a draft of the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Bill in 2016, which led to many consultations and debates across the country. Organisations, groups and networks, and individual trans persons travelled from Chennai to Delhi, from Kolkata to Mumbai, Cochin to Bubhaneshwar, to place various concerns and realities on the record. Through 2016, 17 and 18, we fought for a law that recognised the many identities and facets of being trans in India, and asked for reservation — vertical and horizontal — in education, in employment, in government welfare. And we asked for access to jobs, to health, to housing, and to dignity.

The final bill, introduced in 2019 and made an Act of Parliament, is a momentous step. There are still major concerns in the Act as it stands, and trans persons and organisations and networks will continue to interface with the government to have these concerns addressed. However, that there is a law, on paper, aimed at protecting the lives and livelihoods of transgender persons is a remarkable thing.

Since then, however, not much progress has been made in addressing the everyday realities of trans people. Those of us who come from privileged lives and backgrounds, and with access to a certain kind of school or college in our childhood, have tried to reconcile our professions with our identities and sexualities. For others, for many of my trans sisters and brothers, things haven’t been smooth.

In Chennai, pioneering trans woman activist, writer, and theatre artiste, Living Smile Vidya, begged the government to allow her dignity in life, or at least dignity in death. Finding it difficult to secure employment, housing, Smiley and others protested in the centre of the city and petitioned the government. Her protest made news, but was soon forgotten. Nothing changed materially.

Meanwhile, Grace Banu, and other trans activists, have been demanding horizontal reservation for trans persons who come from Dalit and other SC/ST backgrounds. Set against these is the National Transgender Employment Mela. There have been other job fairs and melas aimed at the trans and queer community in the past. Hyderabad has had one, and private organisations such as Peri Ferry regularly work with queer communities to upskill and equip them for jobs. Coimbatore district in Tamil Nadu has had special programmes aimed at helping trans women seek jobs, and the government of Kerala regularly advertises openings for trans women in government services.

But a national level fair, in partnership with the Ministry of Social Justice and Empowerment, is significant.

As Vee, a trans man — and fashion model and aspiring video editor and content creator — puts it, “I was filled with happiness and excitement seeing so many of my trans friends and colleagues there and knowing that this is a safe space for only us — meaning the trans community — rather than us being overlooked by other queer communities.”

Shruti Singh, a trans woman and hospitality industry professional, also believes that the trans employment mela could be life changing. But she also offers us a different perspective: she says that providing only a job is not enough. Many trans persons have difficulty finding housing and shelter.

Many trans persons, unable to find housing in a big, expensive city either live far from their workplace and commute daily (at significant costs to themselves) or have to live in expensive hotels or temporary lodgings, again at a substantial cost. A more holistic look at livelihoods, where food, shelter, and employment go hand in hand, is essential.

Vee who now works with fashion brands that he once saw only in magazines, believes that the trans employment mela must become an annual fixture. “So that more and more trans people become aware of all the new opportunities there are for them in this world.”