Here, There and Everywhere

by Sudha Murty

  They laughed at me. ‘We don’t need your help. But would you like to buy some tomatoes?’

  ‘No, I am not very fond of tomatoes.’

  ‘What kind of a woman are you? Who doesn’t like tomatoes?’

  I attempted to engage them once more. ‘Have you heard of AIDS? You must know that the government is spending a lot of money on increasing awareness about it.’

  ‘Are you a government agent? Or maybe you belong to a political party. How much commission are you getting to do this? Come on, tell us! We don’t even have a proper hospital in this area and here you are, trying to educate us about a scary disease. We don’t need your help. Our goddess will help us in difficult times.’

  I stood dumbfounded, struggling to find words.

  One of the women said decisively, ‘This lady must be a journalist. That’s why she has a pen and paper. She’ll write about us and make money by exploiting us.’ Upon hearing this, the others started throwing tomatoes at me.

  This time, my emotions overpowered me and I started to cry. Sobbing, I fled from there once again.

  I was in despair. ‘Why should I work on this project? Why do they keep insulting me? Where else do the beneficiaries humiliate the person working for their well-being? I am not a good fit for this field. Yes, I should resign and go back to my academic career. The foundation can choose a different trustee.’

  When I reached home, I sat down to compose a resignation letter.

  My father came down the stairs and seeing me busy, with my head bent close to the paper, he asked, ‘What are you writing so frantically?’

  I narrated the entire episode to him.

  To my amazement, rather than sympathizing with me, my father chuckled and said, ‘I didn’t know that you were so impractical.’

  I stared at him in anger.

  He took out an ice cream from the fridge and forced me to sit down and eat it. ‘It’ll cool your head,’ he said and smiled.

  After a few minutes, he said, ‘Please remember. Prostitution has existed in society since ancient times and has become an integral part of life. It is one of the root problems of all civilizations. Many kings and saints have tried to eliminate it but no law or punishment has been successful in bringing it down to zero. Not one nation in the world is free of this. Then how can you change the entire system by yourself? You’re just an ordinary woman! What you should do is reduce your expectations and lower your goal. For instance, try to help ten devadasis leave their profession. Rehabilitate them and show them what it means to lead a normal life. This will guarantee that their children will not follow in their footsteps. Make that your aim, and the day you accomplish it, I will feel very proud knowing that I gave birth to a daughter who helped ten helpless women make the most difficult transition from being sex workers to independent women.’

  ‘But they threw chappals and tomatoes at me, Kaka,’ I whined petulantly. I always called my father ‘Kaka’.

  ‘Actually, you got a promotion today—from chappals to tomatoes. If you pursue this and go there a third time, maybe you’ll get something even better!’ His joke brought a reluctant smile to my face.

  ‘They won’t even talk to me. Then how can I work for them?’

  ‘Look at yourself,’ my father said, dragging me in front of the nearest mirror. ‘You are casually dressed in a T-shirt, a pair of jeans and a cap. This may be your style, but the common man and a rural Indian woman like the devadasi will never connect or identify with you. If you wear a sari, a mangalsutra [a married woman’s holy necklace], put on a bindi and tie your hair, I’m sure that they will receive you much better than before. I’ll also come with you. An old man like me will be of great help to you in such an adventure.’

  I protested, ‘I don’t want to alter my appearance for their sake. I don’t believe in such superficial changes.’

  ‘Well, if you want to change them, then you have to change yourself first. Change your attitude. Of course, it’s your decision in the end.’

  He left me in front of the mirror and walked away.

  My parents had never thrust their choices or beliefs on me or any of my siblings, whether it was about education, profession or marriage. They always gave their advice and helped us if we wanted, but we made all the choices.

  For a few days, I was confused. I thought about the skills needed for social work. There was no glamour or money in this profession and I could not behave like an executive in a corporate house. I required language skills, of which English may not be needed at all! I had to be able to sit down on the floor and eat the local food, no matter where I travelled to for work. I had to listen patiently, and most of all, I should love the work I did. What would give me higher satisfaction—keeping my external appearance the way it was or the work that I would do?

  After some introspection, I decided to change my appearance and concentrate completely on the work.

  Before my next visit, I pulled my hair back, tied it and adorned it with flowers. I wore a two-hundred-rupee sari, a big bindi, a mangalsutra and glass bangles. I transformed myself into a bharatiya nari, the stereotypical traditional Indian woman, and took my father along with me to meet the devadasis.

  This time, when we went there, upon seeing my aged father, they said, ‘Namaste.’

  My father introduced me. ‘This is my daughter and she is a teacher. She has come here on a holiday. I told her how difficult your lives are. Your children are the reason for your existence and you want to educate them irrespective of what happens to your health, am I right?’

  They replied in unison, ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Since my daughter is a teacher, she can guide you with your children’s education and help them find better jobs. She’ll give you information about some scholarships which you may not be aware of and help your kids apply so that your financial burden may be reduced. Is that okay with you? If not, it’s all right. She’ll go to some other village and try to help the people there. Please don’t feel pressured. Think about it and get back to us. We’ll be back in ten minutes.’

  Grasping my hand tightly, he pulled me a short distance away.

  ‘Why did you say all that?’ I asked. ‘You should have first told them about things like the dangers of AIDS.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish. We will tell them about it some other time. If you start with something negative, then nobody will like it. The first introduction should always be positive and bring real hope to the beneficiary. And just like I’ve promised them, you must help their children get scholarships first. Work on AIDS later.’

  ‘And why did you tell them I’m a teacher, Kaka?’ I demanded. ‘You could have said I was a social worker.’

  My father offered a calm rebuttal. ‘They consider teaching to be one of the most respectable jobs and you are a professor, aren’t you?’

  I nodded reluctantly, still unsure of his strategy.

  When we went back, the women were ready to listen. They called me ‘akka’.

  So I started working with them to help their children secure the promised scholarships. Some of these children even started going to college within a year. Only after this happened did I bring up the subject of AIDS, and this time, they heard me out. Months went by. It took me almost three years to establish a relationship with them. I was their darling akka and eventually, they trusted me enough to share their heart-rending stories and the trials they had endured.

  Innocent girls had been sold into the trade by their husbands, brothers, fathers, boyfriends, uncles or other relatives. Some entered the sex trade on their own, hoping to earn some money for their families and help future generations escape poverty. Still others were lured into it with the promise of a real job, only to find themselves tricked into sex work. Hearing their stories, there were moments when I couldn’t hide my tears, yet they were the ones who held my hand and consoled me! Each story was different but the end was the same—they all suffered at the hands of a society that exploited them and filled them with guilt and shame as a fina
l insult.

  I realized that simply donating money would not bolster their confidence or build their self-esteem. The best solution I could think of was to unite them towards a common goal by helping them build their own organization. The state government of Karnataka had many good policies that encouraged housing, marriage schemes and scholarships, but if we started an association or a union exclusively for the devadasis, they could address each other’s problems. In time, they would become bold and independent, learning to organize themselves in the process.

  Thus, an organization for the devadasis was formed. I believe that God cannot be present everywhere at once and, instead, he sends people to do his work. Abhay Kumar, a kind-hearted and idealistic young man from Delhi, joined us unexpectedly. He wanted to work with me and so I decided to give him the toughest job in order to test his passion for social work. I told Abhay, ‘If you work with the devadasis for eight months and survive, I’ll think about absorbing you into the project full-time.’

  As promised, he did not show up for eight months, and then one day, he confidently strolled into my office, a little thinner, but grinning from ear to ear.

  I said, ‘Abhay, now you know how hard social work is. It takes extreme commitment and persistence to keep going.

  ‘You can go back to Delhi with the satisfaction of having made a difference to so many lives. You are a good human being and I’m sure that this little experience will stay with you and help you later.’

  He smiled and replied in impeccable Kannada, ‘Who said that I wanted to go back to Delhi? I’ve decided to stay in Karnataka and complete this project.’

  ‘Abhay, this is serious work. You are young and that’s a great disadvantage in this line of work and …’ My voice faded away. I didn’t know what else to say!

  ‘Don’t worry about that, madam! You gave me the best job I could possibly have. I thought that you might give me a desk job. I never imagined that you’d give me fieldwork, that too the privilege of working with the devadasis. This past year has made me realize their agony and unbearable hardships. Knowing that, how can I ever work anywhere apart from here?’

  I was astonished at such sincerity and compassion in one so young. I offered him a stipend to help with his expenses but he stopped me with a show of his hand, ‘I don’t need that much. I already have a scooter and a few sets of clothes. I just need two meals a day, a roof over my head and a little money for petrol. That’s it.’

  I gazed at him fondly and knew that I was seeing a man who had found his purpose in life. He bade goodbye and left my office with determined strides.

  Obviously, Abhay became the project lead, and I supported him wholeheartedly, taking care to converse with him regularly about the project’s progress.

  One day, I met with the devadasis and inquired about the welfare of their children.

  ‘Our greatest difficulty is supporting our children’s education,’ they said. ‘Most of the time, we can’t afford their school fees and then we have to go back to what we know to get quick money.’

  ‘We will take care of all your children’s educational expenses, irrespective of which class they are in. But that means that you must not continue being a devadasi, no matter what,’ I replied firmly.

  The women agreed without hesitation. They had come to trust Abhay and me and knew that we would keep our word.

  Hundreds of children were enrolled in the project—some went on to do professional courses while others went on to complete their primary-, middle-or high-school classes.

  We held camps on AIDS awareness and prevention and sponsored street art and plays to educate the women and children on various medical issues—including the simple fact that infected hair is not an indication that one must become a devadasi. Rather, it is a simple curable disease that causes the hair to stick together and become matted over time. The women got themselves treated and some of them even had their heads shaved.

  Eventually, we were able to get them loans by becoming their guarantors. Often, the women would tell me, ‘Akka, please help us get a loan. If we can’t repay it, then it is as good as cheating you and you know that we’ll never do that.’

  By this time I knew in my heart that a rich man might cheat me but our devadasis never would. They had great faith in me and I in them.

  On the other hand, life became more dangerous for Abhay and me. We received death threats from pimps, local goons and others through phone calls, letters and messages. I was scared more for Abhay than myself. Though I asked for police protection, Abhay flatly refused and said, ‘Our devadasis will protect me. Don’t worry about me.’

  A few weeks later, some pimps threw acid on three devadasis who had left their profession for good. But we all still refused to give up. The plastic surgery the victims underwent helped to bring back their confidence. They would not be intimidated. Our strength came from these women who were collectively trying to leave this hated profession. Though the government supplemented their income, many also started rearing goats, cows and buffaloes.

  Over time, we established small schools that offered night classes which the devadasis could attend. It was an uphill battle that took years of effort from everybody involved.

  After twelve years, some of the women met me to discuss a particular issue.

  ‘Akka, we want to start a bank, but we are afraid to do it on our own.’

  ‘What do you think happens in a bank?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, you need a lot of money to start a bank or even have an account. You must wear expensive clothes. We’ve seen that bankers usually wear suits and ties and sit in air-conditioned offices, but we don’t have money for such things, Akka.’

  After they brought this problem to our attention, Abhay and I sat down with the women and explained the basics of banking to them. A few professionals were consulted, and under their guidance, they started a bank of their own, with the exception of a few legal and administrative services that we provided. However, we insisted that the bank employees and shareholders should be restricted only to the devadasi community. So finally, the women were able to save money through fixed deposits and obtain low-interest loans. All profits had to be shared with the bank members. Eventually, the bank grew and the women themselves became its directors and took over its running.

  Less than three years later, the bank had Rs 80 lakh in deposits and provided employment to former devadasis, but its most important achievement was that almost 3000 women were out of the devadasi system.

  On their third anniversary, I received a letter from the bank.

  We are very happy to share that three years have passed since the bank was started. Now, the bank is of sound financial health and none of us practise or make any money through the devadasi tradition. We have each paid a hundred rupees and have three lakhs saved for a big celebration. We have rented out a hall and arranged lunch for everyone. Please come and join us for our big day. Akka, you are very dear to us and we want you to be our chief guest for the occasion. You have travelled hundreds of times at your own cost and spent endless money for our sake even though we are strangers. This time, we want to book a round-trip air-conditioned Volvo bus ticket, a good hotel and an all-expenses-paid trip for you. Our money has been earned legally, ethically and morally. We are sure that you won’t refuse our humble and earnest request.

  Tears welled up in my eyes. Seventeen years ago, chappals were my reward, but now, they wanted to pay for my travel to the best of their ability. I knew how much the comfort of an air-conditioned Volvo bus and a hotel meant to them.

  I decided to attend the function at my expense.

  On the day of the function, I found that there were no politicians or garlands or long speeches as was typical. It was a simple event. At first, some women sang a song of agony written by the devadasis. Then another group came and described their experiences on their journey to independence. Their children, many of whom had become doctors, nurses, lawyers, clerks, government employees, teachers, railway employees and b
ank officers came and thanked their mothers and the organization for supporting their education.

  And then it was my turn to speak.

  I stood there, and words suddenly failed me. My mind went blank, and then, distantly, I remembered my father’s words: ‘I will feel very proud knowing that I gave birth to a daughter who helped ten helpless women make the most difficult transition from being sex workers to independent women.’

  I am usually a spontaneous speaker but on that day, I was too choked with emotion. I didn’t know where to begin. For the first time in my life, I felt that the day I meet God, I will be able to stand up straight and say confidently, ‘You’ve given me a lot in this lifetime, and I hope that I have returned at least something. I’ve served 3000 of your children in the best way I could, relieving them of the meaningless and cruel devadasi system. Your children are your flowers and I am returning them to you.’

  Then my eyes fell on the women. They were so eager to listen to me. They wanted to hear what I had to say. Abhay was there too, looking overwhelmed by everything they had done for us.

  I quoted a Sanskrit sloka my grandfather had taught me when I was six years old: ‘O God, I don’t need a kingdom nor do I desire to be an emperor. I don’t want rebirth or the golden vessels or heaven. I don’t need anything from you. O Lord, if you want to give me something, then give me a soft heart and hard hands, so that I can wipe the tears of others.’

  Silently, I came back to my chair. I didn’t know what the women must be thinking or feeling at that moment.

  An old devadasi climbed up on to the stage and stood there proudly. With a firm voice, she said, ‘We want to give our akka a special gift. It is an embroidered bedspread and each of us has stitched some portion of it. So there are three thousand stitches. It may not look beautiful but we all wanted to be present in this bedspread.’ Then she looked straight at me and continued, ‘This is from our hearts to yours. This will keep you cool in the summer and warm in the winter—just like our affection towards you. You were by our side during our difficult times, and we want to be with you too.’