Debi Acharya was born in 1988 in Barasat, on the outskirts of Kolkata. She grew up in a modest home with her parents and younger sister. Her father ran a small crockery shop, and the family lived with limited means. But it wasn’t poverty that shaped Debi’s childhood; it was the feeling of rejection.

From her earliest memories, Debi knew she was not the boy everyone insisted she was. While her sister wore frocks, kajal, bindis and lipstick, Debi was pushed into shorts, shirts, and vests. She longed for the same brightness and softness her sister was free to enjoy.

One day, her aunt dressed her in a frock and applied a little makeup. When Debi looked into the mirror, something clicked. For the first time, she saw herself as she truly was. “Yes,” she thought, “this is me.”

As she grew older, Debi’s identity became clearer—but also more fiercely denied by the world around her. Enrolled as a boy in school, she never fit in with the boys or their games. Her feminine mannerisms made her a target for taunts and ridicule. She felt most comfortable with girls, yet she was constantly forced to ‘stay with the boys’.

The school had separate toilets for boys, girls and teachers. But the boys’ toilets were usually locked because most boys urinated behind the building. Debi never felt comfortable doing that.

She preferred to sit while relieving herself—something that brought her anxiety, shame, and constant fear. She often waited for the right moment to sneak into the boys’ toilet unnoticed. She wished she could use the girls’ toilet, or at least a boys’ stall with privacy.

In Class 9, she was repeatedly sexually abused by a teacher and once gang-raped by him and his friends. When she tried to distance herself, the teacher retaliated. Other teachers turned on her, accusing her of “misconduct.”

As board exams approached, they conspired to expel her and deny her the right to appear. In that moment, one person stood by her—the school principal, who was also her grand-uncle. He intervened and ensured she could sit for her exams. Debi passed Class 10, but the emotional wounds stayed with her for many years.

After school, Debi joined Barasat College. She dressed in gender-neutral clothes, using makeup and nail polish to express herself. But the taunts continued. The biggest barrier again was using the toilet. The men’s toilet felt unsafe and deeply uncomfortable. The women’s toilet was off-limits because female students felt uneasy. The distress was so severe that Debi considered dropping out and studying from home. Her anxiety grew as she missed classes.

One day, the General Secretary of the college asked why she was irregular. When she explained her situation, he immediately intervened. The principal permitted her to use the women’s toilet, and the G.S. pushed for something bigger—a separate toilet for transgender students in the new building.

The administration agreed. By the time Debi graduated, the first transgender restroom had been built. This single act of inclusion changed the lives of many. Transgender students from across Kolkata began enrolling in the college because they finally had a safe restroom. Debi still calls this one of the proudest achievements of her life.

Life after college brought new struggles. Finding rental housing as a transgender woman proved nearly impossible. After much effort, Debi found a room, but the building was occupied largely by men. She had to share a common washroom, which was rarely cleaned. The responsibility of keeping it usable fell entirely on her.

A year later, the landlord suddenly increased her rent by 35%, a hike imposed only on her. When she protested, he told her plainly to vacate if she couldn’t pay.

Today, Debi works with Malda Porichoy, a partner organisation of the Humsafar Trust, supporting people living with HIV (PLHIV) in Malda district. Despite her professional role, she still struggles to access safe and inclusive toilets during field visits. At block offices and government buildings, she often holds her urine for hours. Many times, she is denied access to household toilets during community visits.

She recalls one incident, “I was visiting a block office on a rainy day and got drenched. There was no private washroom to change clothes. I spent the entire day in wet clothes and fell ill by the evening.”

During another incident at a railway station, a transgender friend of hers was screamed at inside the women’s restroom when other women heard her deep voice on a phone call.

In another case, she found a ‘women’s toilet’ in Malda that had only one main entrance and several open cubicles; no doors, no privacy. Spaces like these are particularly unsafe for transgender women, especially those who have not undergone gender-affirming surgery.

Debi’s experiences show how something as basic as sanitation becomes a daily battle for transgender people in India. The lack of safe, private, and accessible washrooms forces them into humiliation, danger, and constant mental stress.

Tired of the everyday confrontations, she says, “Until people’s mindsets change, transgender persons will not get gender justice. We cannot fight every day—otherwise we would end up fighting the whole world.” Trans-inclusive sanitation is not only about infrastructure. It is about respect, dignity, safety, and justice.

Debi Acharya’s journey is a story of courage, resilience, and leadership. From surviving childhood abuse and discrimination to inspiring institutional change and supporting others in the community, Debi represents the strength of so many transgender people whose voices are unheard.

Her words remind us that true inclusion cannot rest solely on the shoulders of transgender persons constantly having to assert their rights. The work must shift to society actors: to institutions, planners, policymakers, and communities to actively create spaces that recognise and affirm transgender identities without question. Trans-inclusive sanitation is our collective responsibility; a measure of how we show up for each other as a society.

— Seema Jain, Programme Manager, CREA