Nine Lives(25)

They had come from their villages to sell their cotton at the market, and having got a good price, were now in a boisterous mood. Although both Kaveri and Rani Bai had the red tikka of the married woman on their forehead, Rani Bai’s muttu—her devadasi necklace of red and white beads—and her jewellery, her painted face and her overly dressy silk sari had given her away. Kaveri was almost an old woman now, or at least looked like one; in fact she was only a few years older than me, in her late forties. Though you could see that she had once been beautiful, the harshness of her life, and the many sadnesses she had suffered, had turned her prematurely halfway to a matron, and she no longer attracted attention.

But Rani Bai was different. She was at least ten years younger than Kaveri, in her late thirties, and was tall, long-limbed and still undeniably lovely. She had a big, painted mouth, full lips, a firm brown body and an attractively bawdy and lively manner. She did not keep her gaze down, as Hindu women are supposed to in the villages; instead, she spoke with a loud voice and every time she gesticulated about something—and her hands were constantly dancing about as she talked—her bracelets rattled. She wore a bright lavender silk sari, and had rings sparkling on each of her toes and up the curve of each ear. So the farmers in their cotton dhotis with walrus moustaches sat there as we sipped our tea together, looking greedily at her and undressing her with their eyes.

Before long, they were loudly speculating at the relationship she might have with me, the firangi; her cost; what she would and would not do; the pros and cons of her figure, wondering where she worked and whether she gave discounts. Rani had been telling me in the car about the privileges of being a devadasi, about the way people respected her, how she was regarded as auspicious and was called even to upper-caste weddings to give her blessings. So the incident, and the open disrespect she had been shown, had particularly upset her.

When we finally fled the chai shop, to a chorus of laughter and bawdy remarks from the farmers, her mood changed. No longer was she in feisty holiday spirits, and as she sat under a banyan tree beside the lake at the edge of the town, she became melancholy. It was then that she told me how she had come to this life.



“I was only six when my parents dedicated me,” she said. “I had no feelings at the time, except wondering: why have they done this? We were very poor and had many debts. My father was desperate for money as he had drunk and gambled away all that he had earned and more, and he said, ‘This thing will make us rich, it will make us live decently.’

“At that age, I had no devotional feelings for the goddess, and dreamed only of having more money and living a luxurious life in a pukka house with a tile roof and concrete walls. So I was happy with this idea, though I still didn’t understand where the money would come from, or what I would have to do to get it.

“Soon after I had had my first period, my father sold me to a shepherd in a neighbouring village for Rs 500, a silk sari and a bag of millet. By that stage, I knew a little of what might lie ahead, for I had seen other neighbours who had done this to their daughters, and saw people coming and going from their houses. I had asked my parents all these questions, and repeated over and over again that I did not want to do sex work. They had nodded, and I thought they had agreed.

“But, one day, they took me to another village on the pretext of looking after my sister’s newborn baby, and there I was forcibly offered to the shepherd. I was only fourteen years old.

“It happened like this. The night we arrived with my sister, they killed a chicken and we had a great feast with rotis and rice—all the luxuries even the rich could dream of. Then my mother went home to our village, and I went to sleep with my aunt. I was asleep when the man came, around nine. It was all planned.

“I realised something was going to happen and started crying. But my aunt, who was also a devadasi, said, ‘You should not cry. This is your dharma, your duty, your work. It is inauspicious to cry.’ The man was about twenty-two, and very strong. My aunt left the house, and I tried to kick him and scratch him, but he took me by force. After that, he cheated me and never gave the full Rs 500 he had promised my father. Though I had given my body to him, he used me, and then cheated me.

“The next morning, I shouted at my aunt. I said, ‘You are a whore and you have made me into a whore.’ She just laughed at me. Often, I still curse my mother. Because of that woman, my life has been wrecked. For two years, I was very upset, and we did not talk. During that time, I refused to do any sex work. Instead, I worked in the onion fields here, earning 50 paise a day.