How abuse and rejection led trans-woman Manjamma to seek refuge in Jogathi Nritya Premium

From Manjunath to Manjamma

When I visit Manjamma Jogathi, former president of the Karnataka Janapada Academy, she introduces me to her “god-given son” B.K Vikram, his parents and son. “The baby’s mother, Ramya, is at work,” she says, beaming at a full-of-beans toddler Trilok. She informs me casually that Vikram and she connected on Facebook a few years ago. Vikram is a poet and Ramya an engineer. “Our mother-son relationship is of the spirit, not of blood,” she says, her face lighting up in a smile.

Manjamma Jogathi was born Manjunath in a body that was at odds with itself and the world. As a seventh class student in rural Karnataka, the only time Manjunath knew unabashed joy was when he wore his female classmate’s langa-jacket (long skirt and blouse) and danced on stage to Kannada film songs.

For this, Manjunath was beaten up and severely ridiculed. His attempts to help with housework were thwarted by his father. His mother, having borne 21 children (of which few survived), was initially happy to have some help, but when she noticed Manju’s proclivity towards dressing like a woman, she too objected.

At that time, neither parent nor adolescent Manju knew that their domestic conflict would grow into decades of systemic abuse. Manjunath would be hunted down, thrashed, humiliated, shunned and molested. He would cry, attempt suicide and spend many nights wishing he’d never heard from the woman within. Manjunath would fashion a lifetime of pain into a platform on which he would dance and own his identity as Manjamma Jogathi.

Matha Manjamma Jogathi or Amma (as she’s now affectionately addressed) is a renowned folk artiste, actor and advocate for trans-women, who face social exclusion despite being sought after for their “auspiciousness.” Playing the Chowdki and Shruti (twin instruments believed to have been created by goddess Yellamma) Jogathis dedicate their lives to telling Yellamma’s stories. Yellammanaata would once be all-night plays, recalls Manjamma, though now they even do half-hour performances as people cannot immerse in complex mythology.

Recounting the events when she was thrown out of home at age 21, Manjamma speaks of her parents with much empathy. Even after taking a loan and getting her “dedicated” (a practice that was later banned), her family could not accept her feminine nature. Her uncle, Gandhi Mama, pushed against her feminine orientation despite being a Jogathi. The despair she felt from being reviled in her own home led her to drink poison — an act that further alienated the family. “Where will Manju go?” asked the village elder, who was consulted after she recovered. “Let him go and do whatever his community does to survive. He cannot be with us anymore,” Manjamma heard her father say. Even her mother did not ask where she would go as she left home with a sari and blouse in a bag.

Hanging by every thread of support she got, living in public spaces and on charity, Manjamma made idlis, taught students and somehow found a mentor when she witnessed a folk dance being performed in a bus stand. “Guru Basappa taught me the Jogathi Nritya and made me dance in crowded bus stands,” recounts Manjamma. She didn’t receive a single rupee for her efforts but she expresses eternal gratitude to him for teaching her an art-form that would save her life and give her a voice. She later met Guru Kalavva Jogathi, who trained her in Yellammanaata and enabled her to take Jogathi Nritya to the proscenium stage.