Fighting on the street

Last week I had a tabla lesson in Kalyana Nagar, I was traveling by I AutoRikshaw since I was a little fuzzy on how to bus myself there. As we pulled up to stop, I could half see out the side, something was going on and it was drawing everyones' attention. Since coming to India I hadn't witnessed any violence, except the rare belligerent drunks, and the watchmen shooing them away from their gates.
I saw a man in plain clothes raising his voice, with anger and disorder in his face and the mess of curls and scruffy beard. His opposer was taller, slender hijra, in a red and green sari, her hair pulled back in a long braid with jasmine in it. She stood him down, shouting back, with oh no you didn't look and a degree of control matching the anger in her voice and manner.
Curious heads straining out of shops and people waiting at the bus stop were all turned and watching. As I got out of the Auto and was paying the driver, my back was to the fracas and growing ring of spectators. I turned around and in that moment the yelling escalated. It happened fast, but I think the man hit first, and then, he was on the ground. She had him on his back, pinned with his leg up over his head, delivering a lecture with finger wagging, slapping him in the face to drive home her points.
I stood there, shocked by what I was seeing, and watching the watchers, gauging peoples' responses. Everyone was interested, but no one was committed. She let him up, turned in disgust and sashayed away, my way, shouting back as she went. He stood up, and yelled after her, dazed and searching for what to do next. Slapped face, smashed ego, the look and smell of too much alcohol and humiliation. He pulled a long rag from his pocket and held it out, a tool for strangling. He came after the hijra, who was walking toward me with her back to him. He called out and quick as he was coming, she picked up a square steel stool and wielded it above her head, daring him. I noticed that this arms was thin but incredibly strong, this was not a woman's arm. She in fact was taller than him, better built; she had a clear physical advantage. I'd been thinking of this fight as a man and a woman, an aggressor and a victim, though she was able to defend herself. Hijra are vulnerable to domestic and institutional violence. I was watching from her side.  But something in that she was able to subdue him with her physical strength blurred the lines. Those arms are not women's arms, but she's slapping him like a girl. I'm on her side, but she doesn't need any help. What would I do if a man was attacking a woman? If two men were fighting, I would not step into the middle of it. What if a man was attacking a hijra, and winning? Is that just another fight between two men? The metal stool raised, ready to strike, the little man and his filthy rag, and all these questions converging in my mind.

She dropped the stool and turned again, and stepped out through a lull in the traffic. He only stood limply and watched her go. Halfway across the busy street, she shouted back to him. He moved to follow after her, yelling back half-answers. But she was gone, walking up the other side of the road, not looking back.