Here There and Everywhere Read online

  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