Three Thousand Stitches Read online

  SUDHA MURTY

  THREE THOUSAND STITCHES

  Ordinary People, Extraordinary Lives

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Preface

  1. Three Thousand Stitches

  2. How to Beat the Boys

  3. Food for Thought

  4. Three Handfuls of Water

  5. Cattle Class

  6. A Life Unwritten

  7. No Place Like Home

  8. A Powerful Ambassador

  9. Rasleela and the Swimming Pool

  10. A Day in Infosys Foundation

  11. I Can’t, We Can

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  THREE THOUSAND STITCHES

  Sudha Murty was born in 1950 in Shiggaon, north Karnataka. She did her MTech in computer science, and is now the chairperson of the Infosys Foundation. A prolific writer in English and Kannada, she has written novels, technical books, travelogues, collections of short stories and non-fictional pieces, and four books for children. Her books have been translated into all the major Indian languages. Sudha Murty was the recipient of the R.K. Narayan Award for Literature and the Padma Shri in 2006, and the Attimabbe Award from the government of Karnataka for excellence in Kannada literature, in 2011.

  By the Same Author

  FICTION

  Dollar Bahu

  Mahashweta

  Gently Falls the Bakula

  House of Cards

  The Mother I Never Knew

  NON-FICTION

  Wise and Otherwise

  The Old Man and His God

  The Day I Stopped Drinking Milk

  Something Happened on the Way to Heaven: Twenty Inspiring Real-Life Stories (Ed.)

  CHILDREN’S FICTION

  How I Taught My Grandmother to Read and Other Stories

  The Magic Drum and Other Favourite Stories

  The Bird with Golden Wings: Stories of Wit and Magic

  Grandma’s Bag of Stories

  The Serpent’s Revenge: Unusual Tales from the Mahabharata

  The Magic of the Lost Temple

  To T.J.S. George,

  who gave me my first break to write in English

  Preface

  I often get letters from students and parents telling me how beneficial my books have been for them and their children. I want to thank them and all those who have exposed me to different facets of life, filling my pot of learning with knowledge and experience. This includes the young men and women who have shown me how they put aside their bitter experiences to move forward in life with joy and hope.

  There are some who feel that most of my writing is fiction, but my life has unmistakably proven to be stranger than that.

  Fifteen years ago, renowned journalist T.J.S. George asked me to write a weekly column for the New Indian Express. I was hesitant at first—all because I was educated in a Kannada-medium school till the tenth grade. It was only natural then that I was more comfortable with Kannada than English. George said to me, ‘A language is but a vehicle. It’s the person inside who’s weaving the story that’s more important. You are a storyteller. So just get on with your story and the language will fall into place.’

  And so began my journey in English. I am what I am today as an English author because of George. He gave me the title of my first book, Wise and Otherwise, and wrote the foreword too. His foresight and encouragement catapulted me from a hesitant writer to a widely read author.

  I often dream about the world being filled with many Georges who will come forward to support such writers and encourage them to experiment and explore their potential.

  I want to thank my young and bright editor, Shrutkeerti Khurana, and also Udayan Mitra and Meru Gokhale for bringing out this book.

  1

  Three Thousand Stitches

  We set up the Infosys Foundation in 1996. Unfortunately, I knew precious little of how things worked in a non-profit organization. I knew more about software, management, programming and tackling software bugs. Examinations, mark sheets and deadlines occupied most of my days. The concept behind the foundation was that it must make a difference to the common man—bahujan hitaya, bahujan sukhaya—it must provide compassionate aid regardless of caste, creed, language or religion.

  As we pondered over the issues before us—malnutrition, education, rural development, self-sufficiency, access to medicine, cultural activities and the revival of the arts, among others—there was one issue that occupied my uppermost thoughts—the devadasi tradition that was pervasive throughout India.

  The word devadasi means ‘servant of the Lord’. Traditionally, devadasis were musicians and dancers who practised their craft in temples to please the gods. They had a high status in society. We can see the evidence of it in the caves of Badami, as well as in stories like that of the devadasi Vinapodi, who was very dear to the ruling king of the Chalukya dynasty between the sixth and seventh century in northern Karnataka. The king donated enormous sums of money to temples. However, as time went by, the temples were destroyed and the tradition of the devadasis fell into the wrong hands. Young girls were initially dedicated to the worship and service of a deity or a temple in good faith, but eventually, the word devadasi became synonymous with sex worker. Some were born into the life, while others were ‘sacrificed’ to the temples by their parents due to various reasons, or simply because they caught a hair infection like the ringworm of the scalp, assumed to be indicative that the girl was destined to be a devadasi.

  As I thought about their plight, I recalled my visit to the Yellamma Gudda (or Renuka temple) in the Belgaum district of Karnataka years ago. I remembered their green saris and bangles, the smears of yellow bhandara (a coarse turmeric powder) and their thick, long hair as they entered the temple with goddess masks, coconuts, neem leaves and a kalash (a metal pot). ‘Why can’t I tackle this problem?’ I wondered. I didn’t realize then that I was choosing one of the most difficult tasks for our very first project.

  With innocence and bubbling enthusiasm, I chose a place in northern Karnataka where the practice was rampant and prostitution was carried on in the name of religion. My plan was to talk to the devadasis and write down their concerns to help me understand their predicament, followed by organizing a few discussions targeted towards solving their problems within a few months.

  On my first day in the district, I armed myself with a notebook and pen and set out. I dressed simply, with no jewellery or bindi. I wore a pair of jeans, T-shirt and a cap. After some time, I found a group of devadasis sitting below a tree near a temple. They were chatting and removing lice from each other’s hair.

  Without thinking, I went up to them, interrupting their conversation. ‘Namaskaram, Amma. I’ve come here to help you. Tell me your problems and I’ll write them down.’

  They must have been discussing something important because the women gave me a dirty look. They lobbed questions at me with increasing ferocity.

  ‘Who are you? Did we invite you here?’

  ‘Have you come to write about us? In that case, we don’t want to talk to you.’

  ‘Are you an officer? Or a minister? If we tell you our problems, how will you solve them?’

  ‘Go away. Go back to where you came from.’

  I did not move. In fact, I persisted. ‘I want to help you. Please listen to me. Are you aware that there is a dangerous illness called AIDS that you could be exposed to? There is no cure for . . .’

  ‘Just go,’ one of them snapped. I glanced at their faces. They were furious.

  But I did not leave. ‘Maybe they need a little convincing,’ I thought.

  Without warning, one of them stood up, took off her chappal and threw it at me. ‘Can�€