The Goose King and a Gaggle of Gays

In the mirror of Rajhams, my dadhi katnevala [beard trimmer] on Prabhat road, I see a flamboyant clap of hands raised above a shadowed face. Parmesh, the hair dresser, had seen them coming; I wondered about the pause in my shave as he fumbled through his pockets for change. 
"mujhe pamch de de! (give me five [rupees])" Parmesh was demanded with another clap and a scream.  His two rupees weren't quite enough.  I gave ten, and another friend entered the store.
"I'm a gay!" shouted the rose-cheeked, shadow-faced hijra wearing rectangular frames.
"ham meim aisa dekh sakta hum [I can see that]," I replied.  "kaham se haim?[Where are you from?]"
"You know Hindi?!" they screamed, as if this was a bigger surprise than having a relaxing shave interrupted by a flamboyant display of ascetic devotion, two (wo)men in drag.
Parmesh, I could see, wanted them out of his store; but seriously, how often does this happen in life?  Not nearly enough in my estimation.
(S)he asked me for my phone number, "aap ka cell number aahe ka?" in a nice mixture of Marathi and Hindi.  I've had similar experiences with Indian men--never a woman--before, and have learned the high value of secrecy in such matters as a cell phone number, often the only thing remotely resembling what people in the U.S. value and know as 'personal space'.
After some time spent correcting make-up in the mirror, adjusting their hair, and rearranging the dupatas they've yet to have nearly enough practice wearing, they left.  But not without first giving me a sweet pinch on the cheek, "I like you," I was told.  Smiling, I took my blessing and waved them both goodbye.