He grew up in Baisakhi Abasan in Salt Lake, taunted, stalked, harassed and molested for his effeminate demeanour. After undergoing surgery for sexual reassignment, today she has found a new life, a new identity and a husband. Not to mention a new name.

Shree Ghatak Muhury had her social marriage legally solemnised through registration on February 18. “I am finally who I wanted to be,” she says, seated in her Kestopur apartment, where she has set up home with husband Sanjay. Dressed in a noodle  strap blingy top, she is a picture of poise and self-confidence, a far cry from the child who was too scared to tell. 

Growing up

The Ghatak family of Baisakhi Abasan, C type flat, was like any other in the government staff quarter. Her father worked in the urban development department, her mother a housewife. Their only son attended a reputable government school in Salt Lake. 

“I was always more comfortable in the company of girls. So I used to get flustered when I would not be allowed to sit with girls in school. I loved playing with dolls with children of our housing complex. We had so many dolls’ weddings. I even ripped the border of Ma’s Benarasi sari once.”

Finally, the mothers could not take it any more. They offered the children to hold a grand funeral for the dolls and even cook a feast. They happily agreed. “A large fire was lit on the roof and all our dolls were thrown into the fire. It was only then that we realised what we had agreed to.”

The boy was the first of the generation and was adored by his aunts. “My mejomasi loved to dress up, so did I. When we visited my grandparents in Naihati, she bought me glass bangles. I used to put them on and off so much that I broke them and scarred my hand,” she recalls, showing the mark. 

Meanwhile, a sister was born to the boy, younger by 10 years. 

As he stepped into his teens, his problems started. “I had a thin voice and kept shoulder-length hair. People started calling me names-ladies, half ladies, chhokka... Initially I had no idea they were addressing me, neither did I know what they meant. Then the physical abuse started.”

Power cuts were a daily occurrence in Salt Lake in the mid-90s. “Our flat was on the fourth floor. As I walked up in the dark, a pair of hands on the second floor would grab me and try to kiss me or touch me. I was so scared that I never gathered the courage to complain. I knew who they were — boys older to me by three-four years.” 

Bus journeys were traumatic. “Things that happen to girls on public transport happened to me as well — the groping and touching. Sometimes I had to get off midway.”

But the worst came in school. Older boys would eat his tiffin and play catch-catch with his tiffin box as he stood crying. Teachers never lent him an ear. Instead they scolded him for complaining. 

This made him stay away from all company. During tiffin breaks, he would break away from classmates and find his way to a secluded spot under a tamarind tree near the science laboratory at the rear of the school. “I used to be curious about the science lab, with a skeleton and the frog dissections. So I would eat my tiffin while peering into the lab through the glass window.”

That is how he caught a pervert’s eye. “He was the school clerk, an elderly man. He started following me to the secluded plot and then into the toilet. I stopped going to the toilet to avoid him. But how can you hold back for the entire duration of a school day? So I stopped going to school.”

The Ghataks had no idea that their son was going through such trauma. They found out about his absenteeism by chance, when his father dropped by to meet him in school one day and was told his son had not turned up for six months and the school was about to send a notice home.

That day, his father flogged him with his belt. “Yet I could not utter a word. I thought it was all my fault that everyone was treating me this way. Koi, onnoder songe toh erokom hoy na? Nischoy amar-i dosh,’ I used to think.

It took long hours of counselling by his grandmother to make him confide in her as to why he was not going to school. Ghatak decided to switch schools for his son.

But why did Ghatak not confront the school? Shree thinks perhaps he did not want to raise a ruckus as he was a government employee and his son was about to sit for Madhyamik. 

Turning point

The switch to far-away Deshapriya Vidyamandir, a boys’ school in Kestopur, proved to be a blessing in disguise. Here he found acceptance and respect. And love.

“I was good in drawing and was already dancing in Mamata Shankar’s ballet troupe Udayan. 

I would skip classes when we had out-of-town programmes. But the teachers, especially the headmaster, were indulgent. They scolded other students for keeping long hair, but when the boys cited my example they said I was allowed to as I was a dancer.” 

He was put in charge of all cultural programmes, be it for Saraswati puja or for the farewell of a teacher. 

This is where he met Sanjay. “He was our seventh boy. But I was not attracted to him initially. I had feelings for his best friend, the class topper, and confided in Sanjay. He used to understand me. We were good friends. When I realised the boy was not interested, I was distraught but Sanjay stood by me.”

This was not the first time that he was attracted to a man. The first time, Shree says, was a “misunderstanding”.

“There was a family with four daughters next door to us at Baisakhi. They made me think that the brother-in-law of the oldest sister was romantically inclined towards me. I used to blush in his presence. But gradually I realised there was nothing from his side and they had made me the butt of a joke.”

Crossing the bridge

His relationship with Sanjay was completely Platonic. “He used to protect me against lurid comments on the streets. Perhaps it is because we were friends first that our relationship has lasted for so long.” 

Shree insists that even if there was physical attraction, she would never have given in. “My mother had taught me long back that a woman’s virtue was like a fistful of sand. It was intact as long as the fist was closed. If the fingers loosened, the sand poured out. I lost my virginity only on the night of my phulsojya, not before.” 

They passed out of school in 2003 after clearing Higher Secondary exams. “We struggled a lot to make a living. I sold saris door to door, waited tables at restaurants...,” says Sanjay. He admits to being attracted to a couple of girls at this stage. “But I soon realised that Shree’s human qualities were such that if not physicially, he could fulfill me in other ways. I fell in love with his feminine entity.”

Soon they were committed to spend their lives together. “Whatever little making out there was, we never crossed limits,” Shree says.

But he was still a boy and family members on both sides started wondering about their relationship. “Sanjay’s family was worried. Ora bhabto amar songe mishey o kharap hoye jabe. My father and my uncle too had started asking awkward questions. My mother shielded us by telling them that Sanjay was her elder son. My sister used to tie rakhi on his wrist and give him bhai phota. That kind of made things acceptable.”

It was around this time that there was news of Tista Das, a transsexual actor, planning to get married. That made him start wondering if he could do the same. “Bhablam montake toh katachhnera kora jay na. Shorirtake katachhnera kore moner songe miliye ni.” 

With her mother’s and Sanjay’s support, after a lengthy hormone therapy and two surgical procedures,  one lasting two hours and another six and half, she was finally reborn as Shree in December 2015. Soon after, on February 17, 2016 the two tied the knot at a Hindu wedding in a Baguiati hotel. The legal confirmation came last Saturday in presence of family and friends.

Dreams for tomorrow

Shree did want to be a mother. “Which girl doesn’t?” she says. But the operation to plant ovary and uterus is far more expensive (her surgery bill so far came to Rs 5 lakh) and could be life-threatening. 

Sanjay sat her down and explained that even if she could not bring a child to the world she could still be a mother to the hundreds of orphaned kids on the streets. “He gave me instances of Ma Sarada and Mother Teresa. They did not bear children themselves but became universal mothers instead.”

Shree has now set up Troyee Foundation to stand by those in distress, especially in the gender marginalised community.

“I see married men with children transform when they come to us and long for a boyfriend.  I feel bad for their wives.”

She has started to speak up not just for herself but also for others. “Last Jamai Sashthi, we had gone to Eco Park. On the way back, when two men teased my sister I slapped and punched them. The heels of my shoes are my ready weapons.”

She gets 10-15 messages a day from transsexual people, seeking advice. “When I was a child, my father forced me to put on half pants and go play football with other boys. I tell parents today: ‘Do not torture your child by forcing him or her to conform to stereotypes. Try to understand him or her.’”

A trained beautician who worked for 10 years at Satin Rose, a parlour near GD Market, she is set to star in a short film. “The script is ready and shooting is supposed to start soon,” says Shree, who is part of the Sealdah-based theatre group Alinda.

Do you know Shree or anyone like her? 
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