Born into a respected and educated family in Solapur, Maharashtra, Amruta Soni’s life appeared destined for comfort and opportunity. Her father was an IAS officer, her mother a schoolteacher, and she grew up surrounded by privilege, except in the one place that mattered most: acceptance.

Even as a child, Amruta knew that her gender identity did not match the male identity assigned to her at birth. Instead of receiving love and understanding, she was met with hostility and violence from the people closest to her. Her family saw her gender identity as a threat to their reputation and refused to accept her.

At just 16, having barely completed Class 10, Amruta was thrown out of her home, and her parents cut ties with her. Her three siblings soon distanced themselves too, removing her entirely from their lives. No one reached out again.

That night, she wandered the streets with nowhere to go, fearful of the stares of strange men and unsure how she would survive. By the next morning, a basic need brought a painful dilemma: Which toilet should she use, men’s or women’s?

In school, she had been forced to use the boys’ toilet, even though she identified as a girl. She often snuck in during class hours to avoid bullying, only to be scolded by teachers if caught.

She says, “When I used the men’s toilet, I was violently molested. While attempting to use the women’s toilet, I would be verbally abused and humiliated. Often, I was left with no option but to use the dirtiest, most neglected facilities that others avoided, just to find a moment of safety.”

Amruta eventually found a group of trans women who offered the acceptance and belonging she had always lacked. But they also opened her eyes to the harsh truth of trans survival in India—where begging, dancing at ceremonies (badhai toli), and sex work are among the few paths available.

After days of sleeping on the streets, she began sharing a small slum dwelling with a friend. She joined her in mangati (traditional begging), dancing at ceremonies, and sex work in order to survive.

At 17, she entered the guru–chela parampara and found her place in the hijra community. By 20, she underwent daima nirvana (castration), marking her formal initiation into hijra identity. Presenting fully as a woman, she continued begging and doing sex work, but resumed her education with determination. She completed her Higher Secondary through IGNOU, followed by a graduation degree and an MBA through distance learning.

Her persistence eventually paid off: she secured a corporate HR job.

In 2016, Amruta was diagnosed HIV-positive, a devastating reminder of the years she had spent navigating unsafe conditions, where access to protective measures, healthcare, and information was nearly non-existent. She began ART treatment, but even within the People Living with HIV (PLHIV) community, she faced discrimination. She was denied access to toilets because people feared ‘catching something” from her.

Her corporate job offered a renewed sense of purpose, dignity and stability, yet the workplace was far from inclusive. Colleagues’ discomfort was subtle but constant, especially in shared spaces and washrooms. The silent stares and avoidance chipped away at her confidence, especially during long working hours, when she found herself alone and unsupported.

One night, after a late shift, that sense of vulnerability turned into horror. The company’s driver took her to an unknown location, where he and several men brutally gang-raped her. Injured, bleeding and semi-conscious, she somehow made it to a hospital, only to not receive compassionate care. A doctor exposed her genitals to a group of students without her consent. Dealing with the trauma from the incident and realising that the company was unwilling to support her, she decided to resign rather than endure further harm. 

Despite every hardship, Amruta rebuilt her life through education and dedicated work. She eventually joined the National AIDS Control Organisation (NACO), contributing significantly to HIV/AIDS prevention across multiple states.

But even in this professional setting, discrimination persisted, especially during field visits. She was repeatedly asked to use toilets meant for watchmen or junior-level clerical/support staff, which were often unhygienic and unsafe for transgender women, particularly those who have undergone gender-affirming surgeries.

In government hospitals, too, transgender people were routinely told to use the dirtiest restrooms—reinforcing their exclusion from basic dignity.

Reflecting on these experiences, Amruta says many transgender individuals attempt suicide multiple times in their lives because of relentless discrimination, lack of safe sanitation, and the daily denial of humanity.

Amruta’s story reminds us that education, privilege, or social status do not guarantee acceptance for transgender individuals. Even as the child of an IAS officer and a teacher, she was denied safety, dignity, and love simply for being herself.

Her journey exposes the deeply rooted stigma that trans people, especially trans women, continue to face. This includes exclusion from family, unsafe toilets and sanitation, workplace discrimination, healthcare violations, physical and sexual violence, and systemic neglect.

Her experiences call for a fundamental shift in how Indian society views transgender people. Beyond policy reforms, what India needs most is a transformation in attitudes, where respect, safety, and basic rights, such as sanitation, healthcare, and education, are recognised as non-negotiable.

Despite everything she has endured, Amruta continues to hope for change. She dreams of a future where the next generation of transgender individuals can live without fear—where their identities are respected, their voices are heard, and their dignity is finally seen as a right, not a request.

— Seema Jain, Programme Manager, CREA