Three Thousand Stitches Read online

  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, ma’am! 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 bid 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 bank 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 my 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 shloka my grandfather had taught me when I was six years old: ‘O God, I don’t need a kingdom nor do