Babi Rani Poudel (she/her) is a 52-year-old trans woman, born and raised in Nepal and now an Australian citizen by conferral. A professional chef, community support worker, writer, and storyteller, she is a passionate advocate for LGBTQIA+ rights and people living with HIV (PLHIV). Babi works tirelessly to support international students, asylum seekers, and marginalized communities across Australia and globally. Her advocacy is rooted in lived experience, compassion, and a deep commitment to justice and inclusion. Through every role she holds, Babi amplifies silenced voices and fosters hope, dignity, and equality for those who need it most.
My Mother’s Hands
From the time I was three years old, I was always beside my mother. Not just near her, but with her. Every step, every breath, I was there. I didn’t grow up in school halls or playgroups. I grew up in her shadow and in her light. My earliest education came from watching her carry a family on her back between the rice fields and the forest paths.
I used to hold the edge of her sari when she got up at 3 a.m. She would bend down and whisper, “Nani, please go to bed. It’s too early for you.” But I couldn’t. My sleep was tied to hers. If she was awake, I was awake too.
We lived in a small, remote village called Dhurdha, tucked between Dhapkhola and Arunkhola. It was a forgotten piece of land. During monsoon, the river overflowed so hard it roared like thunder and shook the earth like an earthquake. We had no electricity, no gas, no roads, no transport, no hospital. We didn’t even have clean tap water. Survival was physical. Every drop of water, every grain of rice, was earned with labor.
My mother never missed a morning. She woke before dawn. She would feed the buffalo, clean their shed, fetch water from the river, and start cooking over firewood. Smoke filled her eyes and burned her lungs, but she kept going. By 7 a.m., she had already done more than most people did in a whole day. By 8 p.m., after making sure everyone had eaten and had their tea, she would finally sit down to eat. She ate last. Often, there was nothing left.
Her hands were dry and cracked from years of scrubbing, carrying, chopping, and grinding. Her feet were broken from walking barefoot over stone and mud. Her nails were chipped, but her will never broke. She gave everything she had to our family. Eight children. A husband. Grandparents. Uncles. Hired help. Fifteen people, and she carried them all without ever saying she was tired.
Between the ages of three and eight, I was like her second shadow. I followed her everywhere. To the forest to collect firewood and animal grass. To the fields where we planted potatoes, cauliflower, and mustard. She taught me how to feed buffalo, how to collect their dung, and clean it with bare hands. I learned how to sweep a mud house without a broom. I learned how to polish a mud floor using cow dung and water mixed together by hand.
I watched her grind lentils using the jato. The jato is made of two heavy stone discs. The bottom disc is fixed to the ground. In the center, there’s a wooden axle called mānī that holds the top disc in place. The top disc has a hole in the middle to pour in the grains, and another hole off to the side to insert a handle called hāto. Sitting next to it, my mother would turn it round and round, grinding the grain while I sat close, watching every motion.
She also used the dhiki to pound rice. The dhiki—sometimes called dheki or dhinki—is a heavy wooden lever used for dehusking rice. It’s operated entirely by body strength and rhythm. My mother handled these tools before the sun even rose, often singing to herself or humming softly to keep going.
I didn’t learn how to grow food from schoolbooks. I learned from her hands. I learned to cook by standing next to her. I learned how to boil lentils until they were just soft enough, how to make chutney that burned the tongue just right, and how to stir rice slowly so it didn’t stick. The first time I made tea, I was with her.
She told me, “Smash ginger on the silauto with the pestle—loro le. Then put it in the tea.” She guided me: “Add some black pepper, some sugar, and milk. Let it cook slowly, boil properly.” Then she smiled and said, “Tea is ready. You made it today.” Her friends clapped and laughed, “Kanchi made tea today? Let’s try it!” They sipped it, smiled, and nodded. That was my first experience of pride. Of being seen.
Once a month, the Arunkhola market arrived. It was a whirlwind of people and noise, stories and feet. People came from every village nearby. To get there, we had to walk two hours and cross a river that overflowed during monsoon. The current was rough. Dangerous. “It’s too risky,” she warned. But I insisted. I wanted to go.
So she carried me in one arm and a heavy basket full of vegetables, rice, ginger, and bananas in the other. We crossed the river together. At the market, people gathered around her. They trusted her. They bought from her. She sold our goods, then used the little she earned to buy essentials—salt, sugar, soap.
But that day, she also bought a beautiful frock.
“For the festival,” she said. “You’ll wear it and dance with us—all the women.”
At another stall, I saw a red tika. I stared at it. She caught me looking. “You want that, Sani?” I nodded. She bought it without hesitation.
Back home, I wore the dress. At the festival, I danced surrounded by the village women. They clapped and cheered, “Kanchi, kati ramri nacheki!”—“Kanchi, how beautifully you danced!” I felt joy. I felt free. I felt real.
But joy didn’t last. Shadows came quickly. My grandfather and brothers spat insults.
“You took a hijra to the market?”
“You’re spoiling him.”
“You’re raising a sinner.”
They looked at me like I was filth. The waste of the family. Even my sixth brother abused me—brutally. Then he left. But the wounds stayed.
My mother found me afterward. She held me. She bathed me gently with warm water and cradled my injured body like I was made of glass. She didn’t flinch, not even once. She tapped my hand and whispered a saying I’ll never forget:
“Kag karau daa jancha, pina suk dai jancha.”
Let the crows caw. The mustard will still dry.
In other words—let them gossip. Let them shout. Your truth will still stand. Your life will still grow.
That became the foundation of my strength.
I was born in a boy’s body, but I wasn’t a boy. My mother saw that. She didn’t need words like “gender identity” or “transgender.” She just knew. She gave me names that made me feel safe. She loved me as her daughter. When I got bullied at school, when I was humiliated by teachers, she changed my school twice. Every time, she stood beside me. She wiped my tears. She believed me.
Today I live in Australia. None of my brothers are here. Just me. I made it all the way across the world by myself. But not really. I was carried—by her strength, her love, her unshakable belief in me.
She passed away in 2016. But she is everywhere in me. Every bit of courage. Every drop of dignity. Every part of my voice—I owe to her. She didn’t just raise me. She built me.
Even in a society poisoned by caste discrimination, where Dalits were treated like dirt, she stood tall. Her closest friends were Kami, Damai, and Sarki. My father didn’t like it. My grandfather scolded her. But she believed all people had value. She never apologized for that.
That was the kind of woman she was.
So this isn’t just a story. It’s a tribute. It’s a memory. It’s proof.
From the age of three to eight, I witnessed greatness every single day. In a woman who walked barefoot through mud, crossed rivers with a child on her hip, fed fifteen people, and still found the strength to love her transgender daughter in a world that tried to break us both.
Because of her, I live authentically.
Because of her, I survive.
Because of her, I speak.