Faceless on Facebook

I have always considered myself an open-minded person.

As a social worker, I spend most of my days working with people society prefers not to see. Street children. Widows. Daily wage labourers. Women abandoned by their families. Migrant workers. Religious minorities. People who have somehow slipped through the cracks.

Or so I liked to believe.

Every night, just before falling asleep, I have a ritual. Five minutes on Facebook. Nothing more. I scroll through a few posts, wish the occasional friend on their birthday, and if my eyelids start feeling heavy, I switch off the phone without ceremony.

That night was no different.

There was a friend request waiting for me.

Jyoti Walia.

No display picture.

I frowned.

Who on earth doesn't have a display picture on Facebook? Some of my friends changed theirs every other day. Facebook practically revolved around faces.

Isn't it supposed to be 'Face'book?

Curiosity got the better of me. I accepted the request.

Barely a minute later, a message popped up.

Jyoti Walia: Thank you so much for accepting my request, di. I'm a huge fan of yours. I really admire the work you do.

I smiled.

Me: Thank you. But tell me something... why don't you have a profile picture?

There was a long pause.

Then came the reply.

Jyoti: I'm like... Gutthi

Me: Gutthi? 

Jyoti: from Comedy Nights with Kapil.

I stared at the screen.

Me: You mean... you're a cross-dresser?

A smiling emoji appeared.

Then two photographs arrived.

The first showed a perfectly ordinary young man in jeans and a checked shirt, smiling awkwardly into the camera.

The second took me by surprise.

The same person.

Only now he wore a sari, bangles, lipstick and a wig. He looked almost... convincing.

My fingers froze over the keyboard.

A cross-dresser?

And I'd just added him to my friends list?

Without thinking, I clicked on his profile.

The cursor hovered over the 'Unfriend' option.

For several seconds, I simply stared at it.

Delete.

One click.

That was all it would take.

Then another thought crossed my mind.

What exactly was I afraid of?

Wasn't I the one who kept telling people not to judge others?

Wasn't I supposed to be educated?

Progressive?

Open-minded?

Besides, what harm could he possibly do from behind a computer screen?

I closed the profile.

Let him stay, I told myself.

From that day onwards, Jyoti became a constant presence on my Facebook page.

Every post.

Every photograph.

Every article I shared.

He liked them all.

If I wrote about a health camp, he commented.

If I uploaded pictures from a school visit, he commented.

If I posted a quote, he commented.

Every single day without fail, a message would appear in my inbox.

Good morning, di.

Hope you had a nice day.

Take care, di.

Sometimes I replied.

Most days I didn't.

It made no difference.

The messages kept coming.

I began to wonder whether he had any real friends at all.

A few weeks later, I was having lunch with my best friend, Zubi.

Halfway through her biryani, she looked up and said casually, "You seem to have acquired a rather devoted fan."

I frowned.

"Fan?"

"That Jyoti something."

"Ah. Jyoti Walia."

"Yes, that's the one. She comments on every single thing you post."

"Does she? I never noticed."

"Sometimes even two or three times."

I didn't say anything. Just smiled.

The messages continued.

Some mornings, before I had even finished my first cup of tea, there would be one waiting.

Good morning, di.

Sometimes it was a photograph of a flower.

Sometimes a quote.

Sometimes nothing more than a folded-hands emoji.

I replied when I could.

On the days I didn't, another message would arrive the next morning as though the previous one had never gone unanswered.

One evening, after returning from work, I found yet another message.

Jyoti: Di, can I ask you something?

Me: Of course.

Three little dots danced on the screen for almost a minute.

Jyoti: Do you think I'm weird?

I stared at the question.

Me: Why do you ask?

Jyoti: Just tell me honestly.

Me: No.

His reply came almost instantly.

Jyoti: Thank you, di.

That was all.

I smiled to myself.

Then, before I could overthink it, I typed...

Me: Can I ask you something now?

Jyoti: Anything, di.

Me: Why do you dress up as a woman?

There was a long silence.

Long enough for me to think he had logged off.

Finally...

Jyoti: I don't know.

A few seconds later another message appeared.

Jyoti: I just like it.

Me: Since when?

Jyoti: Since I was little.

He paused again.

Jyoti: Dad almost killed me once.

My fingers stopped.

Me: Why?

Jyoti: I was five. Mum had gone to the market. I wrapped her sari around me and was dancing to Munni Badnaam Hui.

A laughing emoji appeared.

It looked oddly out of place.

Jyoti: Dad came home early.

Another pause.

Jyoti: He said if I ever behaved like that again, he'd throw me out of the house.

Me: Does your mother know?

Jyoti: She pretends she doesn't.

Me: And your friends?

Jyoti: Which friends?

Before I could reply, another message appeared.

Jyoti: No di. They'd laugh.

I rested the phone on my lap.

Outside, children were playing cricket in the lane.

Someone appealed loudly for an LBW.

A dog barked.

The phone buzzed again.

Jyoti: Di?

Me: Yes?

Jyoti: You're the only one who knows.

I looked at the message for a long time before typing back.

Me: Thank you for trusting me.

He replied with a smiling emoji.

The months slipped by.

Sometimes our conversations lasted five minutes.

Sometimes an hour.

He never crossed a line.

Never asked for money.

Never asked for favours.

Never complained.

He would ask about my day.

Remember the names of children from the shelter.

Wish me luck before an important meeting.

Congratulate me after every newspaper interview.

He knew my work better than some of my closest friends.

One afternoon, my phone rang.

It was a Facebook call.

I rejected it.

A second later, a message arrived.

Jyoti: Sorry, di. By mistake.

I smiled.

I wasn't entirely sure it had been by mistake.

One evening, a message popped up.

Jyoti: Di, can I ask you something?

Me: Of course.

Jyoti: Will you meet me? Just once?

I stared at the screen.

Jyoti: I just want to see you for real.

A few seconds later another message appeared.

Jyoti: Touch your feet.

I smiled.

Me: Feet? Why?

Jyoti: Because you've changed my life.

I didn't know what to say.

Instead, I sent him my address.

The following Sunday, he came over for tea.

He was exactly as he had looked in the first photograph he had sent me. Jeans. Open checked shirt over a white t-shirt. Shy smile.

"You found the house easily?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Google Maps, di."

We sat in the living room with cups of tea between us.

The awkwardness lasted barely five minutes.

Soon we were talking as though we had known each other for years.

About work.

About books.

About food.

About everything except the one thing that had brought us together.

As he got up to leave, he hesitated.

"Di..."

"Yes?"

"I have one wish."

"What?"

He looked embarrassed.

"A selfie."

"Done."

He shook his head.

"Not like this."

"Then?"

He looked down at his hands.

"I... want one in a sari."

For a moment, I didn't know what to say.

Then I smiled.

"Wait here."

I returned with one of my saris.

His face lit up.

He disappeared into the spare room.

A few minutes later, the door opened.

He stood there, adjusting the pallu awkwardly.

"It's all wrong, isn't it?" he asked.

I couldn't help laughing.

"Come here."

I straightened the pleats.

Pinned the pallu.

Stepped back.

"There."

He looked at himself in the mirror.

For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then he smiled.

It was the happiest smile I had ever seen.

We clicked one selfie.

Then another.

He insisted on seeing every photograph.

"Not this one," he said, deleting one. "I blinked."

I laughed.

"You're fussier than my daughter."

The doorbell rang.

"I'll get it."

It was Zubi. With Aruna.

"We were passing by," she said. "Thought of popping in to see what Madam Social Worker was up to."

They walked in laughing.

Then they saw Jyoti.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

"This is Jyoti," I said.

He folded his hands.

"Namaste."

Aruna smiled. "What do you do?"

He mumbled something.

Zubi nudged me with her elbow.

“Why's he wearing a sari?”

I smiled faintly.

"He carries it quite well though. As if he's worn it plenty of times before."

He lowered his eyes.

"You dance?" asked Aruna.

Jyoti smiled uncertainly.

"A little."

"Come then. We will sing and you dance. Okay?"

Before I could say anything, Aruna and Zubi started singing Saj Rahi Gali Meri Maa and clapping to the beat.

"That's enough," I said.

"Arre, we were only joking," said Aruna.

Zubi looked at him for a moment and suddenly it clicked.

She turned to me.

"What did you say his name was?”

“Jyoti.”

 Jyoti?... Isn't he... that ardent Facebook fan of yours we were talking about?"

No! I looked at Jyoti instinctively, alarmed at Zubi's words.

He was already looking at me. His eyes brimming. No reproach. No anger. Just hurt.

For a second, neither of us moved.

Then he looked away and quietly walked towards the spare room.

A moment later, I heard the door click shut.

The room fell silent.

After a few minutes, my friends got up to leave.

As soon as the front door closed, I walked to the spare room.

"Jyoti?"

No answer.

"They're gone."

A few seconds later, the door opened.

He was back in his jeans and T-shirt.

He slipped on his shoes.

Then, without a word, he bent down and touched my feet.

"Jyoti..."

Before I could say anything more, he straightened and walked out.

I stood at the doorway long after he had disappeared from sight.

That night, I tossed and turned.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jyoti.

His smile as he looked at himself in the mirror.

The selfies.

And then... that look.

No reproach.

No anger.

Just hurt.

I turned from one side to the other.

Sleep refused to come.

Around two in the morning, I gave up.

I reached for my phone and logged into Facebook.

I opened Jyoti's profile.

I would explain.

I would tell him that Zubi knew nothing about his cross-dressing.

His profile opened.

For a moment, I couldn't understand what I was looking at.

Then it struck me.

The 'Friends' button was gone.

In its place was 'Add Friend'.

He had unfriended me.

I stared at the screen.

His faceless profile stared back at me.

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