Friday, September 12, 2008

The Devadasi's Tale


William Dalrymple has written a really terrific story about devadasis for The New Yorker: "Serving the Goddess." In India, some devadasis are something akin to sacred whores. And what makes the piece great is that Dalrymple gets out of the way and lets the story tell itself.
"'You see, we are not like the ordinary whores,' Rani said, as we finally got to her house. 'We have some dignity. We don't pick people up from the side of a road. We don’t go behind bushes or anything like that. We spend time with our clients and talk to them. We are always decently dressed—always wear good silk saris. Never T-shirts or those miniskirts the other women wear in Bombay.'

We had arrived at Rani's door. Outside, suspended on the wall, was a cubbyhole stall selling cigarettes and paan. Her younger sister was sitting here, handing out individual bidis and other cigarettes to passersby. As Rani led the way in, she continued, 'You see, we live together as a community, and all this gives us some protection. If any client tries to burn us with a cigarette or to force himself on us without wearing a condom, we can shout and everyone comes running.'

Inside, everything was immaculate. The space was divided in two by a large cupboard that almost touched the shack's roof. The front half of the room was dominated by the large bed where Rani plied her trade. To one side, on a shelf, were several calendar pictures of the goddess. In the back of the room was a second bed--the one Rani slept in. Here were pots and pans, stacked neatly in racks, and below was a kerosene burner for cooking. On a cupboard was a large mirror and Rani's family photographs: pictures of her son and her old boyfriend--a handsome man with a Bollywood-film-star mustache and dark glasses--and beside that were passport-size shots of her dead daughters. Both were pretty girls, captured smiling when they were around twelve or thirteen.

Rani took the photographs from my hand, and replaced them on the cupboard. Then she led me back to the front half of the room and indicated that I should sit on the bed. I asked her whether her auspicious status made any difference to her clients when they came to be entertained.

'No,' she said. 'There is no devotional feeling in bed. Fucking is fucking. There I am just another woman. Just another whore.'"