Abdul Rahim: The Woman Who Refused to Disappear

Abdul often returns to the park bench. She watches children play, men and women laugh and talk, each lost in their world. She quietly settles into the place where she once struggled to belong, questioning her identity and battling loneliness. The bench remembers both versions of her - the broken child who once came here, and the unshakable woman she has become.

“They said I was cursed,” Abdul recalls. “They locked me in a room, told me to forget the girl inside me. But the first time I wore a sari, I knew I could never go back.” She says it not with anger but with a quiet smile, the kind born only after walking through fire.

That fire began early. Born in Jabalpur and orphaned young, Abdul grew up under her uncle’s strict, traditional roof. From the beginning, she struggled with unanswered realizations of her body - she spoke differently, moved differently, and searched the mirror for answers that never came. But situations were becoming hard for her. Every soft gesture invited beatings at home. School was no refuge; boys mocked and touched her and  teachers looked away. Already struggling and in order to stop the ridicule, Abdul tried to play the role of a boy. She studied hard, completed her post-graduation and applied for jobs, but interviews ended with doors shutting in her face. Employers sensed her difference before she spoke a word, and at home, the taunts only grew sharper. As if every way was shutting down. 

Abdul’s hope had begun to fade. By fourteen, she knew she was a girl but forced herself into the role of a boy. Society rejected her either way, then who was she? A woman trapped between silence and shame. With no words like “transgender” or “LGBTQ,” she believed she was the only one of her kind. Her refuge became a park bench, where she sat for hours, escaping into nature and wondering if her life mattered. It was there she met them - transgender women who lived loudly, laughed freely, and called her sister. They draped a sari across her shoulders, and for the first time, Abdul felt whole, her identity accepted and welcomed. 

But it did not last. 

Her uncle found out, stormed into their dera, dragged her home, beat her, and locked her inside. “They’ve done black magic on you,” he spat, or perhaps, he claimed, it was an illness. The room became a cage, its grip tightening with each passing day. One night, unable to bear it any longer, Abdul escaped again and found herself back at her “Dera”With nowhere to go, she joined a toli, begging on the streets. There was no other way, but her heart rebelled. “This cannot be my life,” she told herself. With courage in her eyes and a fragile determination, she began with small acts - sweeping streets, planting trees, cleaning the Narmada. In 2009, their efforts caught the eye of an NGO, which invited her to work on HIV awareness. Abdul went door to door, speaking about prevention, organizing testing and counseling. She saw how deeply her own community suffered often left to illness and shame. There, she vowed, that no one should feel as abandoned as she once had. By 2011, she and her peers founded Armaan Foundation, their own space, their own shield. And for the first time, Jabalpur saw transgender women not begging but running an office, using computers, speaking with authority. The city had to look at them differently.

Her journey did not stop there. In 2019, Abdul applied for the Phia Fellowship and she reached to the second round. She almost withdrew as she had no money for travel, had too many doubts. But her community gathered coins, whispered courage, and pushed her forward. She was selected. That year, she trained with We The People Abhiyan, and the Constitution opened before her like a mirror. Every scar, humiliation, and silence was already answered in its pages. This book is our shield, she realized. With its strength, she added new milestones. She guided her community through the Transgender Protection Act, helped people through the process of getting identity certificates, the first step to legal recognition.

Today, Abdul is not just a transgender woman who survived. She is an activist, a founder, a leader. She stands in front of officials, speaks in community meetings and trains others to fight with law and dignity. She is no longer invisible.

And yet, she still returns to the park bench. Not because she is lost, but because it reminds her where she began. Once, she sat there wondering if her life mattered. Now, when a lonely trans child drifts close, Abdul leans in, offers her quiet smile, and thinks:

No transgender have to fight alone. Not anymore!

The above story has been written and published with the explicit consent of the individual involved. All facts presented are based on WTPA's direct interaction with the individual, ensuring accuracy and integrity in our reporting.