The Temple Is Not My Father: A Story Set in India

by Rasana Atreya

  “I promise to keep you updated on Sreeja’s progress.” Asha garu put a hand on Godavari’s shoulder. “Time to go. We don’t want to miss the train.”

  Sreeja wailed, clinging to her mother.

  “Please,” Asha garu said. Her voice caught. “We have to go.”

  Godavari gave her daughter one last hug, one last kiss. Then she pried her daughter’s little fingers from her neck, stepped into the courtyard, and closed the gate on motherhood.

  On the other side of the gate, an engine sputtered to life.

  Clutching an old dress of her daughter’s, Godavari collapsed on the ground.

  “Amma, Amma,” her baby called out in desperation.

  Shivering violently, she buried her face in her daughter’s dress.

  Her child’s wails got fainter and fainter. Then, nothing.

  Her baby was gone.

  Her life was over.

  She was twenty-two years old.

  Part II

  Godavari lay on the cot, staring at the gate. The very gate from which her heart had been ripped. If her attention strayed, would her memories disappear, much like the scent of her baby? She touched the dress to her face again, breathing in deeply. Nothing. And it had been a mere two weeks. Or was it a month?

  The gate rattled.

  What if it were the Lady of Hope, Asha garu, here to take away more hope? Godavari had stopped accepting phone calls. It was enough to know that her baby was safe. She had no desire for details, no desire to know more about her beloved daughter’s bond with her new mother. She’d rather pour cleaning acid on an open wound.

  The gate rattled again.

  She turned over on the cot.

  The gate rattled louder. Then the pounding began.

  Sighing, she forced herself to stand up and put a foot forward. Snatching it back, she carefully put the other foot down – the traditionally auspicious foot, the right one. Why risk bad karma for her daughter? She limped to the gate, trying to restore circulation to her legs.

  It was her father.

  She slumped against the wall. “There’s nothing for you here,” she said in an unemotional voice. “My baby’s gone.”

  “Let me come in, at least.”

  “You heard her,” a harsh voice said.

  Her sister. Godavari closed her eyes in relief.

  “Leave!” Krishna ordered their father, and slammed the gate shut. Then she gently drew Godavari into her arms. For a few minutes Godavari burrowed in her beloved sister’s arms. Then she broke down, crying in shuddering breaths.

  “What have you done to yourself?” Krishna scolded. “Look at you – unwashed hair, bones sticking out of your sari. When was the last time you ate?”

  She led Godavari to the cot under the guava tree and helped her onto it. She dug a banana from the cloth bag hanging from her shoulder and put it in Godavari’s hand.

  Godavari shook her head, whimpering in distress.

  Krishna peeled the banana. “Eat.”

  Not having the energy to argue, Godavari did. After she had eaten, Krishna helped her to the bathroom. “Take a bath. I’ll get you fresh clothes. Then I’ll cook you food.”

  ><<>><

  “Feeling better?” Krishna asked.

  Physically, yes. Emotionally, she wasn’t sure she ever would. But her sister expected an answer, so she nodded.

  “You’ve not been answering the phone.”

  Godavari shrugged.

  “You know how hard it is for me with my son?” Krishna asked.

  Godavari nodded. Krishna’s son was born without limbs but she loved him fiercely and had devoted her life to the child. “If I let myself become negative, what would happen to him?”

  “You, at least, have a child to hold.”

  “You, at least, have a child with limbs. A healthy, whole child who will be able to survive on her own even when you’re gone.”

  Godavari was instantly ashamed. If anyone had a hard life, it was her sister. And she had still found a way to come and support Godavari in her time of need. She hugged Krishna, whispering, “That was so selfish of me. Please forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. Your life hasn’t been easy, either. Anyway, don’t worry about me. I love my son. I’m happy. I just want you snap out of your misery and do something with your life. What happened to your spunk, hanh?”

  Godavari shrugged.

  “Pull yourself together, little sister. Asha garu seems like a good woman, but God! What was she thinking? How could she possibly imagine that snatching a child away from her mother would be for the best? Why didn’t you phone me before taking such a drastic step?”

  “It happened too fast,” Godavari mumbled.

  “I’ve been talking to my NGO friends to see if anything can be done, but I’m not making any promises.”

  Godavari slumped. “How will I survive the years without her?”

  “You will do whatever is necessary,” Krishna said briskly. “I don’t want you to sit idle while your daughter gets on with her life. Do something with your time. I’ve brought textbooks and notebooks for you. Go to the NGO school. Tell them I sent you. Learn computers.”

  Godavari nodded because that was what her sister expected. But it was too late for her.

  Not that Krishna would agree. Because of the turn Godavari’s life had taken, Krishna had joined an NGO for abused women. She had taught at their school until her second child, the son who needed help, was born.

  Godavari leaned her head against Krishna’s shoulder, grateful for her older sister’s unwavering support.

  “Since your daughter isn’t with you, take this chance, study further, then move away.”

  “With what? Who’ll buy a devdasi’s house?”

  “Forget the house. With the money from Amma’s investments, and help from the NGO, find a way to survive.”

  Godavari shook her head. Her sister meant well, but it wasn’t she who lived with the reality of being a devdasi.

  ><<>><

  That visit from her sister had proved one thing, Godavari thought, as she walked along the narrow mud path that curved along the river. Broken heart or not, her will to survive was intact. But if she lived to ninety, as her grandparents had, what was she to do for the next seventy years? Could she really learn computers, as Krishna had suggested, then move to some place far away, clinging to the hope that someday she would reunite with her daughter?

  She stopped just past the rock and peered cautiously between the backs of two houses. Finding the path villager-free, she took a deep breath and started to walk. Hopefully, keeping her head down would be enough to shield her from the wrath of the villagers. The path opened onto a road not much wider, but enough for two vehicles to pass. Eyes lowered, she silently counted out the number of shops as she passed by them – stationery, vegetables, pharmacy, clothes. She stopped in front of the fifth and looked up at the kirana shop. After floods ravaged the low-lying shops eight years ago, all of them had been rebuilt four steps higher than street level. Each shop, a rectangle-shaped room, faced the road. All had chest-high counters, behind which shopkeepers sat. The customers stood at the counter and ordered what they wanted, and the shopkeeper filled the order.

  Thankfully, there were no customers around. Head bowed, she started to walk up the stairs. Someone shoved her from behind, then rushed past. Shocked, Godavari looked up. To push past a woman was bad enough, but a fallen woman like her?

  Her brother, Hari, lanky and foul-tempered, stood a few steps above her, his arms crossed in an aggressive stance. Her heart sank. Her three sisters, Krishna not included, had taught this young man, not quite fourteen years old, that Godavari was the reason he did not have a mother – or an inheritance. Each time she had the misfortune to cross paths with him, he spat at her, shoved her, mouthed obscenities. She stood quietly, waiting for the inevitable.

  He did not disappoint.

  Curling his lip in a sneer, he said, “Even your daughter couldn’t wait to get away
from you, hanh?”

  Godavari sucked in a sharp breath. Why did she let this boy, this child, aggravate her so?

  “Multiply that by a thousand, and you’ll see what it means to be motherless, you thief.”

  Godavari forced a blank expression on her face. She recited a sloka in her head as Hari went on with his taunts. The oily faced shopkeeper had stopped what he was doing. He sat on the chair and rested all of his three chins on the counter, enjoying the day’s entertainment. Suddenly, her brother kicked her in the shin. Godavari stumbled, barely catching herself before she fell. The shopkeeper tittered. When Godavari didn’t react, Hari gave her a dirty look and stomped down the steps, calling out to the shopkeeper, “I’ll come back later, when you have time to wait on decent folks.”

  “So sad, no? Your own brother treating you that way?” The shopkeeper pulled his chair closer to the counter and leaned forward, jowls quivering, his warm breath moistly unpleasant.

  She leaned back and, without change in expression, ordered provisions for the month.

  With the advent of mobile phones, there should have been no reason for her to come to the shop. Many people ordered all their supplies at the beginning of the month and had them delivered to their homes. But, because no self-respecting delivery boy would come to her house, she was forced to drag heavy bags of provisions all the way home. Not so heavy now, with her daughter gone. Her heart ached. She turned away, blinking furiously to keep herself from crying, not wanting to give the smarmy shopkeeper more fodder for gossip.

  “Bag?” the man said.

  Silently, she placed the bag and money on the counter and stepped back just as the shopkeeper tried to lay a hand on her, the bloody man.

  When the man was done, she grabbed the change and slung the heavy canvas bag over her shoulder, wincing as it dug deep. Slowly she walked down the steps. On the road people hurriedly crossed over to the other side. Today her concentration wasn’t as focused as always because she could hear the curses as they were spat at her.

  “Immoral woman!”

  “Just my luck, the bad omen!”

  “Had to see her first thing in the morning. May her face burn!”

  She came to a stop when someone blocked her path. She raised her head, looking directly into the face of Mangamma. Wife of Sreeja’s father.

  “What a woman!” Mangamma said. “Even her own child didn’t want to stay with her. Escaped at the first given chance.”

  Godavari’s eyes fell on the child accompanying the woman. She drew a sharp breath. Giri’s granddaughter! Though a few years older than Sreeja, the girl could be her daughter’s twin; their features were so breathtakingly similar. She struggled to contain her emotions. She refused to break down. Not in front of this woman and this child.

  The bag slid from her grasp, upending its contents and scattering them across the road.

  This child, unlike Sreeja, had not been taught empathy. She clapped her hands in glee as Godavari looked down at the spill in dismay.

  When the woman laughed at her grandchild’s antics, something in Godavari snapped. Pointing a shaking finger at the woman, she raged, “May you know loss, so you can feel my pain!”

  ><<>><

  Feeling a desperate need to connect with Sreeja, Godavari hurried home and called Asha garu. “How’s my daughter?”

  “Oh, you called at a good time!” Godavari could hear the smile in the other woman’s voice. “I just returned from her house. You’d think she was born into that family, she’s so comfortable there.”

  Godavari ruthlessly tamped down the surge of jealousy that welled within her. Her focus must remain on her daughter’s good fortune.

  “They’ve given her a big room that they painted pink. Girls in the city are crazy about pink. Apparently, it’s a big thing with girls that age. And she has a cupboard that is stuffed to the corners with toys. And, just last week, they invited Neeraja and Vanaja over. What a wonderful time the three had!”

  Smiling, Godavari settled her back against the guava tree. “Tell me more.”

  ><<>><

  Later that night Godavari rested her cheek on pillowed hands, spinning dreams.

  Since Sreeja was in a proper school now, she would, hopefully, grow up and marry into an educated family. Someday, if Godavari were lucky, her in-laws or husband would give Sreeja permission to get in touch with Godavari.

  Godavari felt as if her chest would burst with pride – her daughter was in school, like any normal girl! What more could a mother want?

  This exuberance led to another thought – when her daughter came in search of her, from her fancy life, Godavari didn’t want her to be ashamed of her mother. Perhaps she’d do what Krishna suggested. She’d go to the NGO school, learn computers. If she worked hard, she could move to Hyderabad someday, breathe the same air as her daughter.

  Someday, she and Sreeja would be reunited. Of that, she was certain. It was her job to make sure that she met her daughter on equal terms. She felt warmth flood her chest. Perhaps life wasn’t so bad. Time to take that next step. Smiling, she reached for the phone to call her sister.

  ><<>><

  Godavari closed her eyes, finding it strange that she was sleeping in a room at the NGO hostel, not in her little house in the village.

  After she’d indicated her willingness to study, Krishna had moved quickly. Perhaps she didn’t want to give Godavari the time to change her mind.

  But Godavari wouldn’t change her mind. She was here to study, to make something of herself. She had a daughter to impress.

  When Godavari talked to her sister earlier that evening, she’d said, “I’ve made a new friend. Her name is Renuka. She’s such a strong girl. She’s suffered so much, but she still wants to help others.”

  “I was afraid you’d miss Amma’s house so much that you’d ask to come back.” Godavari heard the relief in her big sister’s voice.

  “What’s there to miss? You’re not there, Sreeja isn’t there.”

  “That’s wonderful. I mean, that you don’t miss it.”

  “I’ve been talking to Renuka. She says if we take training here, soon we will be able to help other girls like ourselves.”

  “Oh Godavari,” Krishna’s voice caught. “I’m so glad you’ve finally made a friend.”

  Of everything, Krishna had picked up on the fact that she’d made a friend. Godavari smiled, feeling a rush of love for her sister.

  ><<>><

  Godavari had settled in better than she’d expected. Through their training, Renuka and she had continued to be roommates. Now though both had their own rooms, they continued to remain close friends and co-workers. Neither Renuka nor Godavari wore any jewellery that identified them as devdasi. For this reason, they were able to travel to neighbouring villages and to talk about the evils of people dedicating their daughters to the Goddess. They met people in small groups, trying to convince them that the Goddess didn’t demand the dedication of girls, that it was a man-made notion. She couldn’t be sure they were getting through to these people, but if it made a difference in one child’s life, it would have been worth it.

  She had also been put in charge of the newly rescued devdasis, the ones the NGO and the police were able to free from their pimps. The police might not get in the way of the dedication, but prostitution, especially of children, was quite another matter. Movies did the police a great disservice by portraying them the way they did. There were some very decent policemen out there, men who were as passionate about rescuing children as the NGO women.

  It was heartbreaking work, but Godavari frequently reminded herself of all the NGO ladies who had helped her over the years. She was working on a particularly distressing case now.

  The girl, Raji, had been dedicated by her father, a sacrifice because her father wanted his new cotton-ginning business to do well. After the dedication the father had handed the child over to a pimp. The NGO had been able to rescue the child, but not before the pimp had set the child to work for a month. A wh
ole month – and goodness knows how many men. And the child, only seven years old. In the months the girl had been with them, she had not spoken a word.

  Some days this job got to her. Godavari’s mentor, an older lady named Vani garu, cautioned Godavari against getting so involved.

  “If you don’t keep a part of yourself separate,” she said, “you won’t be able to get past their heartbreak. And if you’re not able to do that, you won’t be able to help other girls.” And Vani garu’s own voice broke.

  Each night, as she prepared for bed, Godavari had to remind herself to take Vani garu’s advice to heart. She forced herself to think only good thoughts, positive thoughts. Positive thoughts were what would lead her to her daughter.

  ><<>><

  Godavari walked to her office in the hostel compound, where she was meeting a social worker to discuss Raji’s case. Godavari had not been able to get through to the child at all. Hard as that situation was, the fact that her own daughter was happy made that burden easier to bear. She smiled as she thought of the call she had just made to Asha garu. Her daughter was doing so well at school that her parents had bought her a dog. A dog! Godavari smiled in disbelief. What kind of people threw money away for such frivolous things?

  She pushed open the door to her office and her eyes fell on a child scrunched up like a ball in one corner of the room. It looked like today wasn’t going to be the day to discuss Raji.

  The social worker pointed at the child and mimed that she was leaving, having realized early on that Godavari had a way with children.

  Godavari nodded. The woman got up and closed the door behind her.

  Godavari looked at the child huddled in the corner and took a deep breath, trying to ease the pain in her chest. It was going to be one of those cases.

  Godavari said gently, “My name is Godavari, but you can call me Akka. That’s what all the children here do. I am going to sit next to you, okay?”

  The child buried her face between her upraised knees.

  Godavari lowered herself to the floor. “Are you hungry?”

  No answer.

  “Would you like some water? An ice cream?”

  No answer.