Noorie

It was just a normal evening. I was heading home from college and, as usual, I caught the Dadar–Kalyan local. The seats were already taken, and some women had made themselves comfortable on the floor near the doors and in the passage. I managed to squeeze into a little space to stand by the door.

Next to me, a girl sat with a huge bag on her lap. As the train pulled out of Matunga and neared Sion, a person boarded and stood by the door. A few minutes later, this person politely asked the girl to stand, explaining that with the crowd rushing in, she might find it hard to breathe—and, as often happens, others might start yelling at her for sitting. To my surprise, the girl got up without fuss. They exchanged a smile, and that small smile turned into a conversation.

The person asked, “Were you coming from a trip?”

The girl replied, “Yes, from Ooty.”

They continued chatting. When the girl asked, “What do you do?” the reply stunned everyone around:

“I spread information on AIDS awareness in slums.”

But the surprise wasn’t in the word AIDS. It was in who said it—a transgender woman.

I could sense the shift in the air. Normally, when a transgender person enters the compartment, many women whisper, avoid eye contact, or pass nasty comments. But here was someone openly talking about a job that demanded courage, patience, and resilience.

Standing there, I thought: Is this true? Do people really listen to them? How do they manage when society hardly accepts them?

The girl asked the very question on my mind:

“Are you serious? Do people actually listen to what you say?”

The woman smiled and replied:

“I work with an association run by our community. We go door to door in slums, talking about AIDS. Yes, it’s hard. Most people shut the door on us without a word, thinking we’re only here to beg. Out of 100 people, maybe 85 don’t even acknowledge us. But the other 15—they treat us like humans. And that’s enough. We don’t force anyone to listen. We’re used to rejection—even our families haven’t accepted many of us. But when someone gives us a chance, we share what we know with all our heart.”

By now, the whole compartment had fallen silent, listening to her. That silence itself felt like a miracle.

As the train reached my stop, I moved towards the other door. Before stepping down, I shouted, “What’s your name?”

She beamed and replied, “Noorie!”

I waved goodbye, carrying with me a memory I’ll never forget.

That evening, Noorie taught me something powerful without even trying. She showed me what resilience looks like. She reminded me that our everyday problems are tiny compared to the battles others fight just to be seen, just to be heard.

This happened during a rough phase in my own life, and maybe that’s why it struck me so deeply. But even today, I carry Noorie’s lesson with me—to value life, to fight back, and to remember that strength often comes from places we least expect.