Born in 1986, Kiran Naik grew up as the second of four siblings in a small village in Andhra Pradesh. At the age of three, his life changed drastically when he was diagnosed with severe poliomyelitis in both legs. The illness left him unable to walk, restricting him to crawling around his home through much of his childhood.

What followed was a life shaped by three simultaneous disadvantages: being Dalit, a person with disability, and being a trans man. Kiran’s journey reflects how deeply these layers of identity influence access to education, sanitation, dignity, and opportunity in India.

Due to his disability, Kiran could not attend school until the age of ten. It was only after a compassionate local teacher visited his home and convinced his parents to send him that he entered a classroom for the first time. This marked his introduction to public life.

“I began school in 1996,” he recalls. “The 1995 Disabilities Act had just been passed, but in Andhra Pradesh, it hadn’t been notified. Awareness, rights, accessibility—nothing had reached us by then.”

“Awareness and facilities for children with disabilities were almost non-existent. I was a wheelchair user, but the school lacked a wheelchair accessible toilet. I used to avoid drinking water for the entire day, to avoid going to the toilet.”

In the scorching heat of his village, this led to severe dehydration. By Class 10, he developed kidney stones—requiring medical intervention. Doctors asked him to drink large quantities of water, but without accessible toilets at school, even that became a struggle.

At the age of 12, Kiran began experiencing deep discomfort with being seen as a girl. He identified strongly as a boy but had no language or support to understand his gender identity. This internal conflict intensified in gendered spaces—especially toilets and hostel areas.

When his village school ended at Class 7, he was encouraged to join a government residential school with a girls’ hostel. The experience was traumatic. Being forced to live exclusively among girls, changing clothes in front of them, and using girls’ toilets caused immense distress. He fell into depression, stopped eating for days, and returned home—only to face anger for dropping out.

His teacher arranged a ground-floor room, but Kiran refused to go back because he could not share his true reasons. As a result, he failed his board exams. With intense effort, he reappeared and completed Class 10.

When he reached college, Kiran finally began presenting as male—cutting his hair short, dressing in shirts and trousers, and openly embodying his identity. But toilets remained a barrier.

With no gender-neutral sanitation facilities, he was forced to use the women’s restroom. The girls allowed him reluctantly. Every visit triggered shame, distress, and worsening depression. The struggle pushed him to the brink of suicidal ideation.

Managing menstruation was even harder. As a wheelchair user and trans man, the lack of accessible, private toilets made menstrual hygiene exhausting and humiliating. Many trans men quietly suffer through such challenges, and Kiran knew he wasn’t alone. In 2012, after years of difficulty, he decided to undergo gender-affirming surgery. He feels physically more comfortable today, and continues to advocate so others don’t suffer in silence.

During college, Kiran fell in love with Kavya. Their relationship faced severe opposition due to his disability, caste identity, and her higher-caste OBC background. When her family arranged her marriage elsewhere, they eloped and married at the temple in Tirupati.

The backlash was swift. Kavya’s family filed criminal complaints, attacked Kiran’s relatives, and the police offered no protection. In their moment of despair, a sympathetic media reporter connected them to an organisation in Bengaluru. There, they found work, safety, and a new beginning.

In Bengaluru, Kiran began actively mobilising trans communities, helping them embrace their identities with dignity. His activism led him to establish two major organisations: —KVC (Karnataka Vikalachetanara Samasthe), a collective for trans men that has 216 members across Telangana and Karnataka, and STAR (Society for Trans Man Actions and Rights), a network for transgender persons with disabilities with 94 members.

These organisations provide livelihood training, legal support, and job placements. They have successfully helped several community members secure employment—including positions with the traffic police in Warangal, Visakhapatnam, and Hyderabad.

Kiran’s life is shaped by three compounding barriers: caste-based discrimination, Severe locomotive disability and transgender identity. These intersecting barriers make everyday life far harder for him, especially in the context of sanitation.

He continues to experience recurrent urinary tract infections, consequences of hydration restriction, inaccessible toilets, and earlier trauma. Menstruation, which contradicts his gender identity, has caused him anguish for years. Even after hormone therapy (HRT) and three surgeries, irregular periods continue, often arriving unexpectedly and causing public embarrassment.

“Many trans men can hide their menstruation,” he says. “But with a disability, you cannot, since you need assistance. The shame is doubled.”

Even today, he limits water intake while travelling because public toilets remain inaccessible or unsafe.

For Kiran and for thousands like him, inclusive and accessible toilets are not a luxury. They are essential for dignity, health, safety, and mental well-being; factors that enable full participation in society.

India’s sanitation infrastructure is still not built for persons with disabilities, let alone for transgender persons with disabilities. Without change, people like Kiran will continue living in fear, pain, and invisibility.

— Seema Jain, Programme Manager, CREA