Whether it’s 3 AM or 3 PM, Vijay Nagar never sleeps. Located next to the North Campus of Delhi University, the area is a bustling mix of residential spaces and shops where you can find almost anything you need. The honking is relentless—rickshaws, scooters, SUVs, and jeeps all fighting for space on the narrow streets. Student groups add their chatter to the din, a fight breaks out somewhere, the milk trucks of dawn give way to the vegetable sellers’ calls as the sun rises and by evening both are replaced by the bhajans blasting from the loudspeaker of the nearby Hanuman Mandir. There’s also the smells— the sharp sting of the open drain, the scent of student-budget thalis from the many dhabas and the inviting aroma of samosas, drawing crowds just before evening chai time.
Shikha, in the midst of cooking dinner, would rush to the balcony when the samosa frying began. That time of day was a breather for all of us—Shikha, Ashu, my friend and roommate, and I. Ashu and I would take a break being glued to our screens, grinding away at our corporate jobs for most of the day, while for Shikha, it was a chance to unwind and share stories. Clutching a 50-rupee note, she’d hurry to the thela [cart], her scarf wrapped snugly around her face, and return in a flash—true to her nickname, she is “bijli”.
I first noticed Shikha in 2019, sweeping the already spotless staircase of a house across from where I lived in Vijay Nagar. We didn’t speak at first, but our eyes met—unspoken queer recognition between two queer folks. Ashu reached out to her about working for us, and soon she was handling the cleaning and dishes. What began as a distant, formal exchange slowly grew into a friendship. For a few hours every day, we shared more than just physical space—we shared our stories, our identities, and a connection that went beyond employer and employee. Through our bond, I’ve come to see firsthand how her everyday battles with identity and work blend into a complex tapestry of survival and hope.
Amidst the unpredictability of everyday life, Shikha moved through Vijay Nagar with a quiet determination. She arrived each morning from her rented room in Rana Pratap Bagh, covering the distance in under 30 minutes.
Wrapped in her scarf, she navigates the streets with a purpose. She initially told me it was to protect her skin from the sun’s harsh rays but later admitted it also helps her slip past the endless stares and blend in among the women on the bus.
Asha, who presses clothes in a nearby shack, remembers Shikha from her early days in the area.
So does Shyam Babu, the rickshaw puller who has watched Shikha grow up. She has been a presence in the neighbourhood long before she began working there.
Laadi Bhabhi, Sardarni Aunty, Dukaan-wala bhai—these names come up often when Shikha talks about her work. Each employer carries a different story—Laadi’s kids speak to her rudely, the Sardarni delays her payments and asks for loans, and with Dukaan-wala bhai who owns a shoe store, she has a long-time relationship that has never yielded a raise. When Shikha tries to share something personal with them, she’s often reminded, “You’re here to work, focus on that.”
“Hum malikon se baat nahi karte, hum naukar hain toh naukaron se baat karenge,” Shikha said. [I don’t chat with my employers, I am a worker, so I will speak with other workers.] Among friends like Asha and Nisha, she talks about the difficulties of making ends meet on a domestic worker’s wages.
Shikha’s presence is unmistakable. I’d often hear her haggling over onions, her voice carrying easily as she conversed with the vegetable seller all the way from the third floor. She’d scold me for not bargaining enough. On any given day, she would be weaving through the crowds of Vijay Nagar, eyes fixed ahead, slipping between the familiar chaos.
Born in a jhuggi [slum dwelling] in Rana Pratap Bagh, Shikha watched it get demolished during the metro’s expansion in 2004 when she was 11 years old. Now, at 31, she lives in a rented room nearby with her mother, having spent a few years in Narela in between.
“Shuruat se hi mai aisi hun. Pit pit ke mai dheet ho gayi thi,” she says with a smile that speaks of a familiar story. [I’ve been like this from the beginning. The beatings have made me stubborn.]
She started working in Vijay Nagar alongside her mother, cleaning and doing other domestic chores. Her mother switched to another line of work eventually, but Shikha continued. She has been working since she was around 12, navigating the dual challenges of labor and her identity.
At the age of 10, she swapped boys’ clothes for kurtas and dupattas, playing with the neighborhood girls, despite family protests.
School teachers called her “bhagwan ki dain,” [divine gift] insisting to her mother that no exorcisms could change her. After failing the 6th grade three times, Shikha left school for good. The boys in her class nicknamed her Bijli—a reference to the lightning speed with which she went about her tasks. Bijli was a character from the late 90s horror show Ssshhhh…Koi Hai, known for her quickness, just like Shikha. Even now, many in the neighborhood affectionately refer to her by that name.
Shikha is an encyclopedia of fashion—whether it’s Kashi lehengas or Rajasthani sarees, she knows it all. She’s taught me that every festival deserves new clothes, always showing me the new cuts she’s planning for her latest blouse, inspired by Kashi reels.
Despite her resilience, her life is marked by immense precariousness. With many employers moving away from the area, making ends meet has always been difficult. And the challenge is further compounded by a brother recently released from jail, whom Shikha has to support. We tried to help with fundraisers and job leads, but it wasn’t easy.
When she began working in Vijay Nagar, people rejected her for being trans. “We want a woman, not a kinnar,” they’d say. Yet, over time, referrals from satisfied employers built her reputation. Now, her family accepts her as she is, even when she wears sindoor for a partner she’s not married to, embracing her love for solah shringar [sixteen adornments traditionally worn by brides on their wedding day].
Shikha dreamt of a future in an office—cleaning, making chai. This has finally come true now. Earlier, when I asked if she’d ever consider leaving this kind of work and do something else, she shrugged, “Mai padhi likhi nahi hun na” [I am not educated, no]. The thought of studying again feels out of reach—“Ye mere palley nahi padti” [It is not my cup of tea]. But her hopes extend beyond the daily grind—she wishes to transition soon and go for a gender-affirming surgery.
Our friendship, though rare, has grown from shared struggles and small victories. Shikha now chats easily with new faces on the bus to work. After I helped her find her current job as housekeeping staff at a real estate company, she often said, “Manvi, tere bina humara kya hota” [Manvi, what would I do without you?] Her gratitude weighs heavy on me, even as I feel it was only a small gesture—something I’d do and everyone must for any friend.
Since moving out of Vijay Nagar earlier this year, our lives have taken a different turn. New responsibilities and plans are taking shape for me and Shikha is adjusting in her new job. From our formal beginnings to where we are now, each of us on our own path, we still find time for chai on weekends in Vijay Nagar, holding onto the threads that connect us. And in those moments over a cup of chai, we find a familiar comfort—tracing the changes in our lives while cherishing the bond that brought us together.
Shikha trusts that whatever I’m doing with this story is in her best interest, and I do it because I believe stories like hers need to be heard. As we each navigate our own lives, she’s taught me to find joy in small things, even when the world feels heavy. And maybe that’s where our story leads next—both of us seeking out new ways to face the future, finding hope and small pockets of joy, even when the odds seem impossible.