(For the purpose of this article, “third gender men” refers to female-born individuals who live masculine life, while “third gender women” refers to male-born individuals who live faminine life. The identities of all individuals mentioned have been changed to protect their privacy.)

Parbat had always believed he knew who he was.

Born female but living as a masculine life, he had spent years fighting for the right to be seen as himself. The journey had not been easy. His family struggled to understand him. Neighbours whispered behind his back. Even strangers questioned why he dressed and behaved masculine.

Yet life had finally begun to feel stable.

He had found work in Pokhara. He shared a small rented room with his girlfriend, who accepted him as he was. Together they dreamed of saving enough money to open a little café one day. Their lives were modest, but they were happy.

When he was selected to attend a national GSM rights conference in Kathmandu, he was excited. It was an opportunity to learn, meet activists from across Nepal and imagine a future where people like him would no longer have to hide.

On the second evening of the conference he met Nisha.

Nisha was a well-known third gender woman. She was confident, elegant and charismatic. People gathered around her wherever she went. She had an infectious laugh and a way of making everyone feel important.
She noticed Parbat standing alone after one of the sessions.

“You look lonely,” she smiled.

They talked for hours.

For the first time, Parbat felt understood by someone from another part of the GSM community.
When she invited him for dinner, he accepted.

One dinner became another.

One conversation became many.

Parbat had never imagined himself becoming emotionally close to a third gender woman. His life had always revolved around women. He questioned his feelings but convinced himself there was nothing wrong with friendship.

One evening, after drinks and intoxicating substances left him barely aware of what was happening around him, his life changed forever.

The next morning he woke confused, frightened and ashamed.

Nisha reassured him.

“Forget about last night,” she whispered. “During the day you’re still the man everyone knows.”
Parbat desperately wanted to believe her.

He begged her never to tell anyone.

Among many third gender men, masculinity was not simply an identity—it was survival. The thought of people discovering what had happened terrified him.

She promised the secret would remain between them.

She bought him expensive boots and men’s clothes.

She treated him with affection.

Parbat mistook kindness for safety.

When conference ended he extended his stay few more days before returning to Pokhara. He returned to Pokhara carrying a secret he hoped would disappear.

Instead, it grew.

Weeks later his monthly menstruation did not come.

He tried to convince himself it was stress.

Another month passed.

Then another.

He could no longer deny the truth.

He was pregnant.

Every mirror became an enemy.

Every conversation with his partner became unbearable.

He could not imagine telling the woman he loved that he was carrying a child.

Nor could he imagine telling anyone else.

Unable to cope, he travelled back to Kathmandu and found Nisha.

When he shared the news, she fell silent.

Finally she said, “I can’t be a father. I’m not a man.”

She suggested ending the pregnancy.

Parbat was too frightened, too confused and too alone to argue.

Afterwards, he expected comfort.

Instead, the relationship slowly disappeared.

Calls stopped.

Messages went unanswered.

He was left alone with grief he could not name.

The news eventually reached some of his relatives.

Instead of asking whether he was safe, they asked why he had brought shame upon the family.

“If you wanted a man,” one relative mocked, “why pretend to be a man yourself?”

Others questioned whether he had ever truly been a third gender man.

His identity, carefully built over years, was dismissed in a single sentence.

Homeless and emotionally shattered, Parbat accepted shelter from another third gender woman named Anjali.

He hoped for a fresh start.

Instead, he entered another cycle of exploitation.

His vulnerability was manipulated.

His body became something others used.

Again he experienced unintended pregnancies.

Again he underwent abortions.

Each one left him physically weaker and emotionally emptier.

By the third abortion in three years, Parbat barely recognised himself.

He stopped attending community meetings.

He avoided old friends.

He no longer answered his girlfriend’s calls.

Eventually his parents found him.

They were horrified by his condition.

They admitted him to a rehabilitation centre to trun him back into a real woman. After several months of isloation in a prison like setting, the cruel supervisor replaced by a kinder one who also understood Parbat’s issues. In few weeks he slowly began to recover.

Recovery, however, did not erase memory.

Even today, Parbat struggles with nightmares, anxiety and overwhelming shame.

Some members of the GSM community avoid him because they believe his experience made the society questioning and suspecting the entire GSM community.

Others simply do not know how to respond.

Yet Parbat’s story is not unique.

Over the past two years, several third gender men have experienced unintended pregnancies while in relationships with third gender women. Some about seven pregnancies ended in abortion. Two children were born. One was abandoned. Another is now being lovingly raised by a third gender men (who is also the biological mother) together with a lesbian partner.

These stories force us to confront difficult truths.

Gender identity, sexual orientation and reproductive capacity do not always fit society’s expectations.

Human relationships are often more complex than the labels we assign them.

But complexity should never become an excuse for silence.

The greatest tragedy is not simply the pregnancies.

It is the loneliness.

The secrecy.

The stigma.

The feeling that there is nowhere to turn—not even within one’s own community.

As long as these stories remain hidden, more people will suffer alone.

The invisible third gender men of Nepal deserve more than silence.

They deserve understanding.

They deserve healthcare.

They deserve justice.

Most of all, they deserve the same compassion that every human being deserves.