‘I thought that the practice had been abolished,’ I said. As far as I knew, the Devadasi practice had been outlawed in 1988 on the grounds that it was akin to prostitution.18
‘Yes, it has been abolished by law, but not by society,’ Rajvi said softly.
I met Swapna the following day at Rajvi’s office. After exchanging greetings, Swapna and I stepped out to the college sports field for a walk.
‘Madamji, why are you here?’ she asked me before I could inquire about her.
‘To meet you!’
‘You have come from Geneva?’
‘Yes.’
‘I went to America once.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘I got myself admitted in school here. My mother did not want me to, but I managed. I do not know who my father is,’ Swapna explained in slow, broken English with a smattering of Hindi and Telugu (which I did not understand). ‘Then, when I was nine I thought that I should bring together all orphans in my school because they must have had difficulties to study like I did. So I started The Child’s Club. All orphans in my school were part of The Child’s Club and we met and played together. One American organization heard about it and they got me to America to give them a speech about the club. They gave me an award.’
‘That is wonderful. But why did your mother not want you to go to school?’ I asked.
‘She wanted me to follow our Devadasi tradition!’
‘How do you like it in college here?’
‘I like it, but it is difficult to attend classes.’
‘Why?’
‘I am a Devadasi. My people and my mother still do not want me to study. Some other people think I am bad and they do not want me to be with their children,’ she said.
‘Then how did you manage to complete school and enrol in college?’
‘I told everyone that I did not want to follow the Devadasi tradition. I wanted to go to school. I had to fight my people. I live with my mother far away, outside Nizamabad, near the fields. It was difficult to come to school every day,’ Swapna told me.
‘Here, in college, it is difficult to attend all the classes. But vice principalji helps me. She tells the teachers to give me extra classes. Sometimes, she even arranges for my exams to be held later, only for me, when I cannot come to college for them. Vice principalji is very kind,’ she added.
Swapna’s teachers at the college had told me that Swapna was a good student, but she had to deal with the wrath of her community to pursue an education. Her actions had caused mayhem at home and almost ruined Swapna’s relations with her mother, who, from what Swapna told me, would much rather have her daughter follow the community’s traditions.
Before returning to Geneva, with Swapna’s consent and as a precursor to her education in London, I arranged to have her sent to train during the summer at an organization in South Africa that mobilized local communities to overcome social challenges. I was glad to see Swapna excited about her trip.
On another visit to Nizamabad a few months later, I met Swapna again. She had just returned from South Africa with a marvellous new self-confidence. She seemed to have gained even greater strength to break the shackles that tradition had clamped on her. I was immensely hopeful. King’s College had pointed out that English language skills would be the only requirement for Swapna because she had the remaining qualifications. I made arrangements to improve her English. Rajvi helped me by organizing English language classes for Swapna in Hyderabad.
The date of Swapna’s departure for London was approaching and I was trying to raise funds for her living expenses and travel. London is an expensive city to live in, and I wanted Swapna to be financially comfortable so that she could get the most out of the experience.
The following month, I returned once again to Nizamabad for a few days to oversee our anganwadi projects.
‘I’ve heard Swapna is not going to London,’ one of the women at the local dispensary told me while I was making my usual rounds in the community.
‘Who told you that?’ I asked.
‘That’s what people around here are saying. In our tradition, Devadasis don’t leave the temple,’ she replied.
Later in the day, Rajvi called me. She sounded panicked.
‘Maa, I tried to convince Swapna but she does not want to go,’ she told me.
‘Did you ask her why?’
‘She is not telling me. I think she has a boyfriend here in Nizamabad, and he is telling her not to go!’ said Rajvi, distressed.
The next day, a few others told me that the community had threatened Swapna and told her not to leave. I decided to speak to her.
‘I cannot go to London, madamji,’ Swapna told me.
‘Is that a choice that you have made?’ I asked her.
Swapna did not answer.
Swapna did not tell me why she declined the offer to study at King’s College, and I chose to neither probe further, nor convince her. She had the right to decide for herself, irrespective of what decision I thought would be appropriate for her.
Consequently, I will never know the real reason why she declined. In many ways, I have always felt that Swapna’s refusal was my failure. Should I have met her more often? Perhaps I should have engaged more with her mother. What else could I have done to bring her community on board? Making choices for individuals seemed to be the prerogative of the community in Nizamabad.
If the preservation of tradition could lead to progress, or if tradition and modernity could walk hand in hand—as our Constitution intended—I would celebrate that. But this is not always the case in India. The dogmatic observance of archaic rules of community, jati and caste
