The
devadasis
still retain this auspiciousness in Karnataka today, and for exactly the same reason: they are seen as symbols of fertility. There is, however, an almost unimaginable gulf separating the
devadasis
of ancient poems and inscriptions, and the lives lived by women like Rani Bai today. In the Middle Ages, the
devadasis
were drawn from the grandest families in the realm, among them princesses of the Chola royal family – as well as from slaves captured in war. Many were literate and some were highly accomplished poets; indeed at the time they seem to have been almost the only literate women in the region. Their confidence and self-possession is evident in much of the poetry, while their wealth is displayed in the inscriptions recording their generous gifts to their temples.
Today, however, the
devadasis
are drawn exclusively from the lowest castes – usually from the Dalit Madar caste – and are almost entirely illiterate. Around a quarter come from families where there are already
devadasis
among their immediate relations, and in some of these families there is a tradition that one girl in every generation should be dedicated to the goddess.
While many medieval temple women had honoured positions within the temple hierarchy, the overwhelming majority of modern
devadasis
are straightforward sex workers; the
devadasis
I talked to estimated that only about one out of twenty of those dedicated as children manage to escape into other careers, not least because almost all of them begin work soon after puberty, and so leave school long before they can get the qualifications that might open up other opportunities. They usually work from home rather than brothels or on the streets, and tend to start younger, and to take more clients, than commercial sex workers. Maybe partly because of this larger number, the infection rate of
devadasis
is also slightly higher than that of other sex workers.
The main outlines of the working lives of the daughters of Yellamma are in reality little different from those of other workers in the sex trade. This does not, however, stop the
devadasis
from drawing elaborate distinctions between their sacred vocation and the work of their commercial sisters, which they take great pleasure in looking down upon.
Ironically, it was partly well-meaning social reform which contributed to this marked drop in status. In the nineteenth century, Hindu reformers, reacting to the taunts of Victorian missionaries, began to attack the institution of temple dancers and sacred prostitution. Successive waves of colonial and post-colonial legislation slowly broke the ancient links that existed between the
devadasis
and the temples, driving them out of the temple precincts and eroding their social, economic and spiritual position. Most recently, the 1982 Karnataka Devadasi (Prohibition of Dedication) Act drove the practice completely underground, outlawing the dedication of young girls and threatening any priest who assisted in such ceremonies with years of harsh imprisonment. All around the lake, and on the road up to the temple, the government has now put up huge warning signs:
DO NOT DEDICATE YOUR DAUGHTER. THERE ARE OTHER WAYS OF SHOWING YOUR DEVOTION
and:
DEDICATING YOUR DAUGHTER
IS UNCIVILISED BEHAVIOUR.
For all their efforts, however, the reformers have not succeeded in ending the institution, only demeaning and criminalising it. There are currently estimated to be around a quarter of a million
devadasis
in the states of Maharashtra and Karnataka, about half of them living around Belgaum. Every year, several thousand are added to their number – estimates range widely from 1,000 to 10,000 dedications annually – and they still make up around a quarter of the total sex workers in Karnataka. For the very poor, and the very pious, the
devadasi
system is still seen as providing a way out of poverty while gaining access to the blessings of the gods, the two things the poor most desperately crave.
This is why several thousand girls, usually aged between about six and nine years old, continue to be dedicated to the goddess annually. Today, the dedication ceremony tends to happen at night, in small village temples, and sometimes without the presence of Brahmins. When Brahmins do consent to attend, they charge as much as Rs 5,000 to the parents of the girl, because of the risk they now have to take in doing so. A feast is thrown, prayers said, then the young
devadasi
is presented with her
muttu
, which represents her badge of office as a sacred prostitute. Her duties and privileges are explained to her. If the girls are dedicated when they are very young, as is usually the case, they then return to a normal childhood. Only when they hit puberty are they wrenched from the lives they have led, and offered out for their first night to be deflowered by the highest bidder in the village, usually for sums ranging from Rs 50,000 to 100,000.
Later that day, I visited the Yellamma temple with Rani Bai and Kaveri. It was a fine ninth-century building, packed with pilgrims from across the state, and we had to queue for some time to get
darshan
of the goddess. Ahead of us were a party of excitable eunuchs from Bijapur. The girls had recovered their spirits and now chatted away with the eunuchs as they waited. They were clearly happy to be in the home of their protectress.
‘I feel very devotional whenever I am here,’ said Rani.
‘You feel her presence so strongly in her temple,’ said Kaveri.
‘She is very near,’ said Rani.
‘How do you know?’ I asked.
‘It’s like electricity,’ she replied. ‘You can’t see it, but you know it’s there, and you can see its effects.’
When we arrived before the idol, the priests blessed us with a camphor lamp and Kaveri explained that the image of the goddess had emerged from the hillside. ‘No one made it,’ she whispered.
Having bowed before the deity and made an offering, I asked one of the Brahmins whether they still performed
devadasi
dedications. The priest looked cagey.
‘What do we know of these women?’ he said, looking around to his fellow pundits for support.
‘We used to bless their necklaces,’ said one of the older priests. ‘Then give them back to them. But now that is illegal.’
‘That was our only role.’
‘What they do is their own business,’ said the first. ‘This is nothing to do with us.’
That evening, after we had dropped off Kaveri in Belgaum, I drove Rani Bai back to the house where she lived and worked in a nearby town. This was located in Mudhol, in a back alley of the town where many
devadasis
have settled. More than a hundred worked here in a small warren of streets off the main highway heading to Bangalore.
It was a dark lane, lit by a single, dim street light. Dogs sat next to open gutters, while half-naked children played in the side alleys. It was perhaps the depressing nature of her surroundings that led Rani – always the optimist, always the survivor – to talk up the positive side of her career.
‘We still have many privileges,’ she said as we approached her house on foot, since the lanes were too narrow here for the car. ‘If a buffalo has a calf, the first milk after the birth is brought to the
devadasis
to say thank you to the goddess. During the festival of Yellamma, the people bring five new saris to us as gifts. Each full moon we are called to the houses of Brahmins and they feed us. They touch our feet and pray to us because they believe we are the incarnation of the goddess.’
‘Still this goes on?’ I asked, thinking of the attitude of the Brahmins at the temple.
‘Still,’ said Rani. ‘When we are called for
pujas
like this, we feel very proud.’
‘There are so many things like this,’ she continued. ‘When a child is born, they make a cap for the baby from one of our old saris. They hope then that the love of Yellamma will be on that child. If a girl is getting married, they take a piece of coral from us
devadasis
and they put it in the girl’s
mangalsutra
[wedding necklace]. If they do this, they believe the woman will experience long life and never suffer widowhood.’
‘Also,’ she continued, ‘unlike other women, we can inherit our father’s property. No one ever dares curse us. And when we die, the Brahmins give us a special cremation ceremony.’
We stepped over a dog, sleeping, half in, half out of an open sewer.
‘You see, we are not like the ordinary whores,’ said Rani, as we finally approached her house. ‘We have some dignity. We don’t pick people up from the side of roads. We don’t go behind bushes or anything like that. We spend time with our clients and talk to them. We are always decently dressed – always wear good silk saris. Never t-shirts or those miniskirts the women wear in Bombay.’
We had arrived at her door now. Outside, suspended on the wall of the house, was a small cubby-hole stall selling cigarettes and
paan
. Here sat Rani Bai’s younger sister, squatting down and handing out individual
beedis
and cigarettes to passers-by. The sisters greeted each other, and I was formally introduced. As Rani led the way in, she continued:
‘You see, we live together as a community and this gives us some protection. If any client tries to burn us with a cigarette, or tries to force himself on us without wearing a condom, we can shout and everyone comes running.’
Inside, in contrast to the street, everything was immaculately clean. The space inside was divided in two by a large cupboard which almost touched the shack’s roof. The front half of the room was dominated by the large bed where Rani plied her trade. To one side, on a shelf, were several calendar pictures of the goddess. At the back half of the room was a second bed – the one Rani slept in. Here were all her beautifully clean pots and pans, stacked neatly in racks, and below was her kerosene burner for cooking. Above all these, on a cupboard, were a large mirror and Rani’s family photos: pictures of her son and her old boyfriend – a handsome man with a Bollywood-film-star moustache and dark glasses. Beside that were small, passport-sized shots of her two dead daughters. Both were pretty girls, shot smiling when they were around twelve or thirteen, full of youth and hope.
Rani took the photos from my hand and replaced them on the cupboard. Then she led me back to the front half of the room and indicated that I should sit on the bed. Perhaps prompted by the association, I asked her whether her auspicious status made any difference to her clients when they came to be entertained here.
‘No,’ she said. ‘There is no devotional feeling in bed. Fucking is fucking. There I am just another woman. Just another whore.’
‘And do you feel safe from the disease here?’ I asked. ‘Are you confident that the condoms can protect you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘There is always fear. We know that even if you persuade all your clients to wear a condom, one broken one can infect us. And once we are infected there is no cure. We will die – if not today, then tomorrow.’
She paused. ‘You see, I know what it’s like. I watched both my daughters die, as well as at least six of my friends. I nursed many of them. Some lost their hair. Some had skin diseases. Some just became very, very thin and wasted away. One or two of the most beautiful girls became so repulsive that even I did not want to touch them.’