Breaking Free Read online

  ‘Through the lives of three generations of women, Vaasanthi, a magical storyteller, has presented a living picture of the cruelty and injustices of the devadasi system. Equally skilfully she depicts the passion, pain and courage of artistes who, inspired by India’s freedom struggle, learn to break free.’

  – SHASHI DESHPANDE, author of Strangers to Ourselves

  ‘The writer opens the vein into the story of a horrific tradition in which girls are specially chosen to be married to God. It actually meant that they served the “needs” of high priests of the temple, and of the raja who was the temple patron. A powerful story, told with clarity and insight, about some of the young girls who suffered and the few who fought back.’

  – KAVERY NAMBISAN, author of

  The Story that Must Not Be Told

  ‘Breaking Free plunges the reader into the varied and turbulent world of devadasis, bringing the complexities of their history to life.’

  – GITANJALI KOLANAD, author of Girl Made of Gold

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  P.S. Section

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  Copyright

  1

  BOISTEROUS LAUGHTER FLOATED in from somewhere. Not a lone burst, but an endless uproar, like a long string of firecrackers going off, as if a whole army was laughing. Startled, I looked up from the book I was reading. A short distance away, under a sun umbrella set on a grassy knoll adjoining the lake, a group of men and women sat on a bench or lounged nearby, chatting among themselves. Everyone had a can of Pepsi or Coke in their hand. Mostly young; tourists perhaps, or colleagues from the same office. Repeating whatever had triggered their uncontrollable laughter, they laughed again: carefree, uninhibited, joyous, explosive laughter.

  What could have caused so much mirth, I wondered. I was amazed by people who could laugh with such abandon, so freely, as if there was nothing on their minds except the present moment, not even the shadow of any other. If they tore their chests open like Lord Hanuman and revealed what was inside, they would prove that there was no burden in their hearts. As a child, when I had gone to my friend Uma’s house, I saw a large portrait of Hanuman in their puja room. A monkey with pink, bloated cheeks. He stood tall and upright, tearing his chest open with his hairy hands. Lord Rama and his wife, Sita, were visible inside his torn chest.

  ‘Shall we keep a picture like that in our house too?’ I had suggested.

  ‘No,’ Amma said, smiling.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we don’t need such things. All we need is good thoughts in our minds.’

  ‘But they are not god, Amma.’

  I remember Amma pulling me close in a tight hug. I can still recall the fragrance of her body.

  ‘For us, they are our only god.’

  In what form would good thoughts appear? I was confused. The next day, on her way back from work, Amma bought a figurine as if to offer me an explanation. It had three monkeys. One had covered its ears. One sat with its mouth shut. The third had closed its eyes. Luckily, Amma didn’t say that it was god.

  ‘Speak no evil. Hear no evil. See no evil. That’s the message of this figurine,’ she said. ‘If you follow it, you will always be happy.’

  I didn’t know if she actually lived by those maxims. She must have tried and failed.

  At the age of five, I realized that our family was different. When I told Uma that there was no god in our house, she stared at me with wide eyes, as if to say, ‘How sad. You’re an orphan.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll pray for you too before our exams,’ she said.

  Uma created the illusion that it was through her prayers that I had cleared every exam up to twelfth standard. I lost touch with her after school. During my first-year exams in college, I was afraid that I had truly become an orphan.

  For some of my classmates in the hostel, temple prasadam arrived from home to reassure them. During the exam season, those who always loitered around with their foreheads bare would smear their faces with vermilion, sandalwood paste and sacred ash in a drastic makeover of their identities. Some kept a palm-size picture of their god at their bedside. Christians wore a cross at their necks as though they were born with it. They kissed it often. Having no such sacred object, I felt anxious. I feared that god would surely reject me because I didn’t know how to pray. I was annoyed that Amma was not one of those mothers who said ‘I will pray for you, don’t worry’; a mother who expressed her love by sending me bottles of Chyawanprash and Complan to boost my energy.

  But Amma did call me without fail on the eve of every exam. ‘Have you prepared well?’ she asked, like a class teacher.

  For some reason, I felt a lump in my throat. ‘No matter how much I study, I think it’s not enough. I am afraid I might forget everything.’

  I could imagine Amma smiling at the other end. ‘That’s how you feel now, but once the exam begins, you’ll remember everything.’

  ‘I am really scared, Amma.’

  ‘But an exam is not a devil or a demon, is it?’

  ‘That’s how it feels, though—as if a demon is strangling my neck.’ I still remember how I had burst out in despair once. ‘Others in my class are confident. Their mothers pray for them, send prasadam from the temple.’

  I couldn’t tell whether there was a change in Amma’s expression. But moments later, she said quietly, ‘Let’s not discuss what others do. If a person doesn’t work hard and lacks confidence, no god can save them. Haven’t you done well in class so far? Why do you feel scared now, suddenly? You should be confident of your worth. Then all the demons will run away and leave you alone. Best of luck.’

  I got very angry with Amma that day. I was furious that she had offered me no sympathy or solace. I didn’t raise the topic again with her for the exams that followed. Determined to shun both god’s and Amma’s kindness, I focused my attention on studying. When I told Amma a few years later how I had felt then, she laughed. ‘If I hadn’t reacted like that, you wouldn’t have grown into an independent girl. You would be looking for a crutch even today.’

  A sudden gust of wind made me feel cold. It penetrated my bones and made me shiver. I pulled the woollen shawl tight around me. Only then did I notice the wetness on my cheeks. Whenever I thought of Amma, my eyes welled up involuntarily; there must be a direct connection between my thoughts and tear ducts. Stemming their flow was beyond me.

  Black clouds were forming in the distant sky. Fearing them, a mass of white clouds overhead was rolling away like a bale of cotton. From a white cloud, Amma waved and smiled.

  Amma was different. It was her distinct character that had alienated me in some ways from the normal run of people. I couldn’t burst into loud, hearty laughter; I had never seen Amma laugh that way. Her smile was the only permanent feature of her demeanour. Sometimes I felt guilty because even that smile had begun to recede from my memory.

  There was no sign of the frolicking tourists. They were probably laughing and partying somewhere else. Creatures who believed that life was one big celebration. Their mothers must be normal people. I realized only now that Amma had been neither normal nor average, that she had had a complex personality. Sh
e must have sat in the same reclining chair where I was relaxing now. She must have analysed the black and white clouds that floated overhead. What kind of thoughts had passed through her mind?

  If you are confident, no demon can stalk you.

  Amma was confidence personified, but some demons must have stalked her too. The very idea that she was unable to fend them off seemed incredible to me.

  Feeling dispirited, I got up and strolled aimlessly in the garden. Analysing Amma in minute detail had become my preoccupation lately. I had no other option. My mind told me that it was a way to find answers to my questions. But my feelings got entangled in the process. My eyes shed tears on their own. Amma would certainly not like it. I didn’t know how to get out of this predicament. It was like being caught in a quagmire. I couldn’t think of a way to extricate myself.

  Amma had planned her life to an inordinate extent. Studying, earning a degree, pursuing a career, marrying Appa, sending me to a hostel—she had decided everything on her own. Her neatly planned life must have been like a glass case though, one that crumbled at the slightest touch. Sometimes I thought that she wanted to control not only her own life but also that of others. It must have been what caused those frequent arguments between Amma and Appa. But I was shocked to discover that there was no connection between what was visible and the truth that lay hidden behind a veil. The woman who carried herself with such confidence was in fact a weakling; the pretence was an attempt to drive away the demons that stalked her. Eventually, she had failed in that attempt.

  I walked towards the compound gate and opened it. As I closed it behind me, I noticed that the curtains in Appa’s room were still drawn. Whenever he was here, Appa got up only at nine. There were still fifteen minutes left. Crossing the road that ran between the house and the lake, I climbed on to the pathway that skirted the edge of the water. Watching the little waves while holding on to the wire-mesh fence was endlessly absorbing. It could be distressing too. The sun, which had begun to shine brightly, had scattered diamonds across the lake’s surface. A few pleasure boats had set out. The number of people on the pathway had increased—boys and girls eager to cover the distance of six and a half kilometres on their bicycles, and their parents who followed them, shouting admonitions: ‘Keep to the left!’ ‘Be careful!’

  There was a small gap in a section of the fence. Two benches had been placed on a small mound on the lake’s shore for walkers to sit and relax. I went towards the mound and sat on a bench. It was warm from the sun’s heat. At the edge of the shore, water lilies were in bloom: pale violet and pink. A little girl ran past, shouting, ‘Look, a lotus!’

  I didn’t know whether Amma used to come and sit here. I must ask Appa. She would have come alone. She lived in her own, special world—one where my father and I were not admitted. A family went by in a boat, laughing exuberantly. They were simple people. The three of us had never travelled together or laughed like them. Their life must be an open book. That must be why they could laugh so freely. They wouldn’t feel the need to wander alone through dark caves.

  But Amma might have had such a need. I felt guilty that neither Appa nor I had made any effort to understand her. How much did Appa know? He had stopped talking about her altogether. Amma had worn a mask and made everyone believe that it was real. I couldn’t decide whether it was a sign of her intelligence or failure.

  Suddenly, an air of serenity settled on the area. The water in the lake became clear as glass; the blue sky had descended on it. The limpid water looked as though it might be very deep, as deep as the ocean. Amma’s long, curly hair displayed its splendour in the water. Her smiling face appeared perfectly still. Her naturally red lips stretched wide with pleasure on seeing me. ‘Did you look at the lotus?’ She smiled. ‘How many flowers do you want? I’ll come back with an armful for you,’ she said and dived deeper into the water.

  ‘Amma, no! Don’t go! The water’s deep, very deep.’ I felt an agitation in my chest. I wiped the tears that had begun to flow and stood up, but the tension did not subside. I didn’t know why I was running. My feet stumbled on something, I lost my balance and fell. I clutched at the wire fence that ringed the lake for support and felt a stab of pain—I had scraped my palm. As I tried to get up, I saw a boy standing before me. Looking intently at me, he asked with concern, ‘Are you hurt? Why did you run like that?’

  At those words, for some strange reason, the agitation in my heart began to abate. Without giving him an answer, I smiled gently and said, ‘Give me your hand.’

  He extended a cheerful hand. I took it and stood up slowly. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Are you able to walk?’ he asked shyly.

  ‘Oh yes. That, over there, is my house. I’ll manage.’

  He glanced in the direction I pointed. Then he looked keenly at me. ‘That one?’ he said.

  I nodded and walked towards the house. I sensed the boy’s eyes on my back. I turned around. He was standing in the same spot, gazing at me. I waved to him with a smile and resumed walking.

  As the boy faded from my mind, thoughts of Amma overwhelmed me. Her face which had surfaced in the water refused to budge. My friend Joan said that her dead mother visited her frequently in her dreams. Amma never came to me in my dreams, not even once. I felt sad that she seemed to be ignoring me.

  When I reached the compound gate, Appa was relaxing in the same chair that I had occupied a little earlier. He looked frail. He saw me and smiled faintly. Suddenly, I felt a surge of anger. I could not return his smile. Instead, fury exploded within me, like a tightly shut container bursting open in a microwave. I hurried over to him and grasped his hands in mine.

  ‘Why did Amma take her own life?’

  Appa gave me a distraught look.

  ‘I don’t know, ’ma,’ he said in a tone of mild irritation. ‘How many times are you going to ask me the same question? Let’s go away. I don’t like it here.’

  I stared at him for some time. Then, with a determination I didn’t understand myself, I said, ‘Yes, let’s go, but where? To Delhi again? What can we do once we get there? Here is where we must find the answer.’

  Appa covered his eyes with both hands. ‘I’ll leave. I can’t stay here.’

  From his heaving shoulders, I could see that he was crying. I did not rush to console him. I was annoyed that he didn’t share my zeal.

  It seemed like I didn’t know much about him either.

  2

  SUBRAMANIA GURUKKAL WOKE up suddenly, as though someone had roused him from deep slumber. He sat up with a jolt and glanced at the timepiece next to him. It was five minutes to four. He reckoned that it would be half past four by the time he bathed and got ready to leave for the temple. The lamp in the alcove cast a faint light in the room. By god’s mercy, his eyesight had not dimmed even at eighty-seven. Though his joints troubled him now and again, he had not had to seek medical treatment for any ailment so far. Nor had he forgotten the sacred chants with which he offered daily worship to the Lord—his tongue never faltered. He would be glad if life went on in this way until he stopped breathing.

  As soon as he opened the door to the backyard, the chill wind of the predawn hour struck him on the face, giving him goosebumps. He was shivering by the time he reached the well and drew a pot of water. Muttering ‘Siva, Siva’, he scooped water from the pot in a sombu and poured it on his head. He feared his body might go numb from the coldness of the water. After pouring a few more mugs of water on himself, he dried his head with a towel and wiped his body. He pressed three fingers into the tin of vibhuti kept in an alcove and, intoning ‘Namachivaya, Namachivaya’, drew neat strokes with the sacred ash on his shoulders, chest and upper arms, and finally across his forehead from left to right. By the dim light from inside the house, he picked the neatly washed, ritually pure clothes from the clothes line, removed the wet garments from around his waist and dumped them in a bucket. Once he had worn the dry veshti in the ritual panchakacham style, his body stopped shivering and slowly returned t
o normal. And after he covered his shoulders and chest with the angavastram, he even felt cosy and warm. He had begun to enjoy these luxuries only recently though. Until five years ago, he had always entered the temple clad in a wet veshti and with his chest bare.

  He thought he saw Kamakshi sitting on the floor in the hall, leaning against a pillar. He was taken aback for a moment. She had died ten years ago. Why did I suddenly have this illusion? Was it an illusion, or was it really her? When he stepped out after taking the flashlight from the cupboard, he told Kamu, who was still there leaning against the pillar, ‘Latch the door from inside.’

  ‘I have truly lost my mind,’ he muttered to himself as he drew the bolt on the outside and locked the door by taking a key from his waist and turning it in the lock that hung from the latch. The flashlight threw a circle of light in front of him that jumped and moved in step with his stride. In the distance, the gopuram appeared like a dark shape. It was a path his feet had traversed ever since he learnt to walk. He remembered running behind his father, wearing nothing but a string around his waist. As soon as his father opened the gigantic doors at the entrance of the temple while intoning shlokas to himself, a colony of bats would take off noisily from within, wings flapping, and fly out. He remembered clinging to his father’s legs in panic and his father clasping him with affection. As soon as father and son entered the temple, two yalis would rise from the pillars on either side, as if paying obeisance to his father with folded palms. Even at that age, he knew that his father was the commander of that empire. As a teenager, he was awed and delighted by his father’s learning and wisdom. The respect and affection he had for his father did not lessen a whit even after the old man breathed his last.

  When he saw the silhouette of the temple’s gopuram today, he was reminded of his father, something that had never happened before. The gopuram was not very tall, but its majestic beauty lifted the spirit. Appa had been small of build, but the glow on his face could inspire anyone to bow deferentially with folded palms. No one at the temple had contradicted Appa’s words and opinions. ‘The times have changed,’ he said, as if explaining to his absent father. ‘Change is natural, after all. But so long as I am alive, I won’t fall short in performing the rites and disciplines you taught me,’ he said to himself. ‘After I’m gone, anything might happen. Why should I worry about it?’