Delhiwale: Mona’s silver jubilee

At Janpath market, a rare book, "Myself Mona Ahmed," priced at 10,000 rupees, celebrates the life of transgender icon Mona Ahmed, marking its 25th anniversary.

At the Paramount Book Store in Janpath market, the shelves are lined with bestselling titles. Amid the clutter, one slim hardbound quietly draws attention. Sealed in plastic, it is priced at a startling 10,000 rupees. Bookseller Naresh’s explanation: the book is rare and long out of print.

Today, Mona would have been over 90. She died nearly a decade ago. (Mayank Austen Soofi)

Set in Delhi, Myself Mona Ahmed is regarded as a classic. This year it turns 25. Photographer Dayanita Singh’s book interlaces image and text to trace the life of Mona Ahmed, a transgender person in Old Delhi. Documented over 13 years, the work unfolds in Mona’s voice—on love, loneliness, and on her life within and outside the eunuch community. It is also a record of an enduring friendship between two people. Published when Dayanita was already an established photojournalist, the book predates the extensive international recognition she would later receive, including the Hasselblad Award, the world’s most prestigious honour in photography.

Today, Mona would have been over 90. She died nearly a decade ago. Her grave lies in Mehnediya Qabristan, a cemetery across the road from Maulana Azad Institute of Dental Sciences. For years, she lived within this graveyard, her home was located beside the enclosure where she lies buried. During her lifetime, Mona’s bed would lay against a wall-sized poster of her own portrait—the same image that graces the book’s cover.

This afternoon, the door to Mona’s house opens to a light push. The courtyard is filled with January’s cold sunshine. A man emerges from an inner doorway and introduces himself as her nephew. He leads the way to what was Mona’s room. The wall-sized poster mentioned earlier is lying rolled up on the floor. Now, another man, young Abdul, enters the scene, introducing himself as someone who “buries bodies” in the graveyard. He grew up in the same graveyard, he says, and remembers Mona with affection. Abdul carefully unrolls the partially torn poster, spending several minutes wiping away the crusted dust. He reverently spreads the creased poster over a flight of steps and, with some shyness, agrees to pose with it for the camera—holding this reporter’s copy of Myself Mona Ahmed.

Although the book was published in 2001, it was launched in the January of the following year. The plan, according to Dayanita, was to host the event at the Swiss embassy in Chanakyapuri, with the ambassador as chief guest. Mona insisted that the ambassador come to her in the graveyard, in his official black Mercedes, “so that every police thana in the area realises that Mona Ahmed bhi koi cheez hain.”

A video recording of the book launch, which was eventually held in the graveyard, shows Mona, wearing a blue dupatta, welcoming the guests, including the Swiss ambassador. Speaking in halting English, she says during her address, “I’m suffering from so many problems, but nobody can see me, only Dayanita sees me.”