What does it mean to exist on the margins, not only of society but of one’s own self? For Mona Ahmed, this question was not rhetorical but a daily reality. “What am I?” she would ask Dayanita Singh, the photographer whose empathetic lens chronicled her extraordinary life over decades. The answers, if they came at all, lay somewhere between the lines of pain, resilience, and the tender humanity captured in Singh’s Myself Mona Ahmed. At its heart, this book is not just a photographic document but a deeply personal testament to a friendship that defied societal norms. It began unceremoniously in 1989, on a journalistic assignment that should have ended as a neat story on eunuchs for The Times, London. But Singh’s interaction with Mona refused to fit into the tidy, pre-packaged narratives that the media often sought. When Mona discovered the assignment’s intent, she destroyed the film, severing any professional ties between the two. Yet, in that act of defiance was also the seed of something enduring: a connection that would forever alter both their lives.

Mona Ahmed was not merely a subject for Singh’s camera; she became a confidante, a muse, a friend. Over the years, Singh was drawn into Mona’s world—its hidden joys and harrowing heartbreaks. Singh wasn’t just a witness to Mona’s life; she was a part of it. She captured Mona in moments of unguarded vulnerability: dancing with abandon, cradling her pets like children, and grieving the loss of her adopted daughter, Ayesha. Through Singh’s lens, Mona was not a "third sex," as society labels her, but a woman navigating the universal human experiences of love, loss, and the quest for belonging.

"Why Did God Make Eunuchs?"

This question haunted Mona, as it haunts anyone relegated to the fringes of identity. The eunuch community, or hijras as they are known in India, has long been both feared and fetishized—a strange paradox of reverence and rejection. Mona’s life embodied this contradiction. Once a beloved figure within her community, she was eventually ostracized, forcing her into physical and emotional exile. Her home became a graveyard, where she built a house on her ancestors’ graves, surrounded by an army of animals and children from the neighborhood. Yet, Mona’s story is not one of mere survival but of defiance. Even as she grappled with rejection and loneliness, she recreated a family for herself—first through her pets and later through the children who gravitated toward her warmth. The photographs from these years are heartbreakingly intimate. One shows Mona clutching a rabbit with a tenderness that transcends species. Another captures her holding her monkey, Shabnam, with maternal pride. When these companions were taken from her—through neglect or malice—Mona mourned them with the same raw grief she felt for her daughter.