History can be unreliable. When we refuse to document, and risk erasing all the people and their stories, then truly history can be unreliable. Writer Bell Hooks says that true understanding comes when we move beyond the centre and look at the margins, where the unheard voices lie. Thirunar Archives is a reclamation — a powerful collection of the stories and art of trans communities, preserving what history (or rather historians who pick and choose) would once rather forget. Contributing to this idea, Poongodi Mathiarasu and Akshara Sanal, MMF PARI Fellows (2023–2024), have taken it upon themselves to document the livelihoods, art, and socio-economic realities of rural transgender folk artistes in Tamil Nadu. They ensure these voices, long overlooked, are finally given the space they deserve in the historical narrative. Through visual storytelling and oral histories, the project not only documents but also fights back against the erasure of trans lives and their contributions.
Pieced histories
A broken mirror. Shattered into a web of reflections. The eyeshadow palette beside it, smudged and worn, shared story of the hands that had traced their own beauty. A powder brush lay abandoned on the black wooden pedestal, its bristles holding the residue of colour, as if waiting for a final touch-up before stepping into the light. This was the first image one saw at ‘We Trans, Have Always Been Here’, a photo exhibition curated as part of the Thirunar Archives. The display set the tone for what lay ahead — a history often fragmented, often erased, but pieced together with resilience.
The first photograph was of Karumbukadai MP Selvi, known to many as Selvi Amma. Captured mid-motion, she stirred an enormous cauldron of biryani. A community leader as much as a chef, she employed sixty-five people, including fifteen transgender individuals.
Another frame featured Iswaraya in a black sari, her head held high. A stage manager, playwright, costume designer, and director, she led Ashok Nataka Mandram, a troupe of ten trans women artistes whose performances served as a living archive of folk theatre.
Then there was Ammu, painting her lips, looking at herself in the mirror, preparing for Karakattam. She had performed the traditional folk dance since she was seventeen, balancing the Thavalai Karagam on her head while raising bulls for Jallikattu and tending to crops. Art and sustenance, hand in hand.
One wall was reserved for Bhai Amma, a transgender Muslim priest at the Putru Poonkavanathu Amman Temple, where devotees of all genders sought blessings. Nearby, a frame captured Sharmi, a Therukoothu performer whose journey had begun in street dance. Her body, painted in folklore’s colours, danced in decade-long devotion to Tamil Nadu’s oldest art form. Beside her stood Shyamala, who founded a dance company to secure fair pay for trans performers.
The body as an archive
Agni Pradeep’s collection showcased her poetry, academic pursuits, and journey through medical procedures. Her surgery images moved inside a box, set in motion by a rolling mechanism outside. The weight of endurance was not just displayed but felt in the moving frame.
Agni captured the necessity of this work. She says, “As a trans person, this exhibition is crucial for both the community and society. We are trying to prove our existence within society.”
The work didn’t just preserve, it demanded a confrontation with privilege — the kind that dictates who gets archived, who gets remembered, even within the marginalised communities.
“From society’s viewpoint, they often only recognise trans people as sex workers or beggars. They are unaware of the many trans artistes working in the folk art field. There is also a significant economic gap between privileged trans women and these artistes. The privileges start from something as simple as lipstick or makeup products they use. This lifestyle and livelihood need to be sensitised to the public,” she explains.
For Mathiarasu, this project was a responsibility. He says, “I am a folk artiste, and I have been practising folk art forms for the past seven years. Some of the trans artistes who were my teachers greatly inspired me. I felt it was my responsibility to document a community that has contributed immensely to our culture through their cultural labour. This term, ‘cultural labour’, refers to the role the trans community has played in shaping the culture and art forms we speak of in India.” His aim was not just visibility but correction. “I wanted to document that this community is not just begging or performing menial work. They are deeply engaged in art forms, and this is not just about earning money — it’s more than that. It’s part of their lives, and they value it immensely. I wanted to capture the trans community’s love for art. That’s the essence of the project.”
Beyond stereotypes
The project spanned three-and-a-half years, beginning with research before delving into photography, installations, and oral histories. The findings were staggering.
Mathiarasu says, “The majority of trans people, about eight or nine out of ten, had dropped out of school due to bullying. There’s a clear connection between bullying, dropping out, and choosing to take up folk forms as a profession. This shift in their lives often began during their school years.” Education was often the first casualty of trans identity. For many, art became both sanctuary and rebellion.
Akshara Sanal’s journey into this documentation was unplanned. “My journey began when I was working with a Tamil news daily. I started by covering protests and attending book release events. This gave me the chance to work in the field and collaborate with people, gaining valuable experience. Later, Mathi and I received a fellowship, and together we initiated this project.”
The MMF Pari fellowship (2023-24) became the backbone of their work, leading them to rural trans folk artistes who had never been documented before. The documentation was displayed in Alliance Francaise Chennai from March 25-30.
“We were particular about ensuring the pictures didn’t just have beautiful frames, colours, or angles; each photo had to tell a story. There were some photos we chose not to display, even though they were aesthetically pleasing, as they didn’t convey the story we wanted to tell.”
By the end of the exhibit, a collection of mirrors were displayed on the wall. Akshara says, “The large picture at the entrance shows a woman holding a broken mirror. This broken mirror symbolises how they use it to prepare themselves. The mirror is broken, but it reflects their reality. At the end of the exhibition, they face a full mirror, symbolising a complete reflection of themselves. It’s a representation of their journey — how their perspective can change, and how they can see themselves in a different light.”