KITES AND WATER BUBBLES
By Lata (Tenneti Hemalata, 1935—1997)
Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi
[A powerful statement on prostitution, one of the malaises that is consuming the society. The author
points out that the problem goes beyond geographic boundaries and economic issues. It is
everywhere and in every form]
It was close to late evening.
The city is stretching like a prostitute after a hex of demonic sex. All the cities are alike, when it comes
to sex life. The difference lies only in the way women are destined to lead their lives.
In the city of Vijayawada, you will find a type of housing, unique to the city life; and then, there are
also the policemen. One policeman stood in front of one such house and howled. One of the window
panels opened slightly and a face peeked through. The policeman looked at her, with a kind of
impish looks. She gestured back acknowledging his looks.
“Why are you scared of policemen? Ha? Aren’t they men like any other?” commented one woman.
This is our great India. In this country, man puts a woman’s honor on a pedestal and then sells it for a
nickel in a heartbeat, twirling his moustache smugly, blowing hot and cold in the same breath. No
qualms, none whatsoever.
The woman’s name is Rajamma. She has a husband. He pays professional tax, under the pretext of
running a business, selling soft drinks, that is. She has two daughters, four nieces, and three more of
her sister’s daughters Some of them lost their mothers; and Rajamma took them, under her wing. As
for the others, they lost their fathers, and Rajamma’s husband is taking care of them. Rajamma and
nine female gems of our great India live under that roof.
Time is five in the evening. Signs of activity just started stirring up. All the other nine women, not
counting Rajamma, woke up from their sleep.
“Hey! Did you see the time? Come on, get up!” Rajamma roared like a lion. All the nine women woke
up as if yanked out of their beds. She alerted them one more time to get up and get ready and went
into the kitchen.
The aroma of onion and dal soup spread around, tantalizingly. “Wow, there is a fine smell,” Ratti said
with a big grin. Currently, she is known as Ratnamanjiram.
“I am not hungry. Don’t feel like doing anything but Attamma will get on our case. We might as well
get up and get to work,” said Kantham.
“What can she do, kill us? What is her problem anyways? Her business goes to dogs but for us. She
will hit the streets for spare change,” Sita said, sneering.
Let’s not mistake this Sita for the woman Valmiki depicted in Ramayana . One thing is sure though.
This Sita plays lover for all the ten heads of Ravana.
“Hey, Savittiri , Did you go to the movies last night? How much did you make?’’ Damayanti asked, with
a grain of salt.
Before Savitri (Savittiri) could respond, Arundhati replied, “I am sure she made good. She is still
green. No matter however you see it, I am sure she snatched five rupees at the least.”
“Five rupees? My foot! Some idiot near Rama talkies invited me to his room, a filthy rat hole, I tell
you! Such a long walk. The walk alone was enough to kill me. Three men were waiting in the room,
ghosh, huge, whopping bulls! They sucked the life out of me all night and then shoved into my fist a
measly three rupees. I tried to reason with them that that was not fair. They growled and booted me.
What can I do? I was three against one. I was already feeling worn out like a leaf for all the work they
have done on me. I could barely bring myself home. Chha! What a rotten life,” Savitri lamented, in
disgust.
“Paltry three rupees after all that tough grind. And two of those three rupees, two would go to
attamma (Rajamma) leaving barely one rupee for you. Things were so much better in the past when
we went to their room. We were making ten rupees at the least.”
“Well, there weren’t this many brothel houses then. There were only one or two per city in those
days. Now we have two houses per street. Now they can get women, dime a dozen and that too, from
higher classes. How could you expect anything more?’’
“Never mind. Attamma is howling. Come on, move,” Subbulu said and started rubbing her face,
brusquely with a cheap soap. They finished bathing and went to the other room where Rajamma was
waiting for them. Rajamma opened the wooden bureau in the corner and pulled out saris for them.
The saris were made of cheap silk, the kind you could buy at the rate of a yard per rupee and a
quarter. They were nearly transparent.
The nine women put on those cheap sarees, dabbed some kind of cheap make up on their faces,
half an inch thick, and tucked in jasmine flowers in their hairdo. In all, they were spreading a revolting
smell with their cheap make up and sweat.
It was getting close to six in the evening.
The women went into the kitchen, picked up the aluminum plates from the corner and sat down to
eat. Rajamma served a scoop of rice, and soup into their plates. None of them could relish the food.
They were trying to nibble and swallow. Only Sita, unlike others, was gobbling it up. Sita was the
youngest of them all, about 16 years old, still new, was looking fresh. Arundhati felt jealous watching
her enjoying the food.
“Eat it, you might as well enjoy while you can. You might even get lucky and see two movies today,”
Arundhati commented, with a pale grin.
“Attamma, let me have a piece of pickle, please,” Sita asked.
“What? You want pickles? I can’t serve you pickles and ignore others, can I? Favoritism is not my
style, you know,” Rajamma bawled.
“Well then, give them too,” Sita said, sternly. she is the only one among them to speak her mind.
Rajamma hit the roof. “Give them too? How? You think I’ve got a bundle, to fritter away?”
Sita turned to others, “Fritter away, her money? She is talking as if she is feeding us out of the
goodness of her heart! Takes two thirds cut of what we make; and, did you hear what’s she saying?”
and turned to Rajamma, and howled back, “Come on, let’s have pickles. No big loss to your stash.”
That put Rajamma in her place. She shut her mouth, went in and brought out the pickles jar.
Sita spoke the truth. Rajamma takes two rupees per head, that is eighteen rupees per day, total. At
that rate, her earnings amount to five hundred and forty rupees per month which is the same as
Class I Officer’s paycheck. In addition, she also collects a quarter of a rupee per saree per night;
charges the male customers one half rupee per night; that adds up to a considerable amount, in all.
Of course, Rajamma has expenses to take care of. Her son attends medical school in a nearby city.
She sends him two hundred rupees per month. She pays one anna to Rangaiah, her husband-cum-
watchdog of her establishment for his tobacco rolls. She, also has to pay for renting babies from
snake-catchers and the desperate mothers who would rent their children for petty cash.
There is no sign of life in any of their faces except Sita. Arundhati and Sita went to the same movie
they had seen six times. Kantham and Subbulu were standing in the doorway wearing a silly grin on
their faces. Anasuya, Ratnam, Sumitra, and Damayanti stayed home waiting for walk-in customers.
They were chewing dried tobacco bits rolled in pan leaves.
“Sita! You’re good, you gave it to Attamma, good,” Sumitra commented thickly, with her mouth, full of
pan leaf juice.
“Well! You know me. This Sita is a kshatriya woman. Nobody can take me for a ride,” Sita said,
proudly.
“Oh, boy! Aren’t we smug! If you think so highly of yourself, how come you ended up here?”
Damayanti said, tauntingly.
“She is bluffing. Do you remember Rangaalu? Left us looking for a break in the movies. She used to
say she was a brahmin. Whoever would believe all that gibberish?” Sumitra said.
Sita was irate at the insinuation. “I am not like you people. I don’t lie. I am truly a kshatriya woman. I
don’t care whether you believe it or not,” she said.
“Come on, Sita. It is six months since you came here; never told us your full story. Come on. What is
your story?” Damayanti asked her.
Sita told them her story, “In our village, ours was the biggest house. One day my grandma got sick
and my family, I mean everybody except me, went to see her. One of my uncles from another village,
on his way to my grandma’s place, came. I was alone and young, you know. I did not understand what
he was doing to me. After about four months, somebody said I was pregnant. My father flayed me
black and blue. I wanted to drown myself, went to the river and was standing on the shore. A man was
standing under a tree nearby with his camera. He saw me, grabbed my arm quickly and stopped me.
He suggested that I go to the city with him. He promised to marry me.
“What a jerk, that uncle of yours! What’s wrong with him anyways,” Sumitra said, annoyed.
Sita continued her narration. “Stupid life, it’s so hard to let go of. I followed him to the city. He rented
a small house in Purnanandam neighborhood and kept me there. I had my baby in a government
hospital. They said that the baby was stillborn. To hell with it, I told myself. Hardly, three months
passed, he started bringing other men to our house.”
“What about marriage?” I asked him.
He laughed. “Some jerk made you pregnant and you’re asking me to marry you? Ha! What a nerve?
You bitch! You had better listen to me or I’ll kick you out,” he said.
I refused to consent to his demands. Then, two men pinned me down to the floor and the third had
me. I spit on myself in disgust, pulled my hair, and cursed my life. The pain was killing me. I felt like I
was run through a grinder. Next day, I went around looking for work; saw a road construction site and
asked them for work. I was not used to that kind of hard labor, you know. By evening, I was
exhausted, was almost dead. At the end of the day, they gave me ten annas.
One day, supervisor came and grabbed me from behind. He said, “You, gorgeous, why do this
beastly job?” Rogue! Can you imagine? You sweat all day like a donkey and you’d get ten annas,
and then on top of it, this? I dragged myself home, and guess who was waiting for me at my door, the
temple priest! He was after me for a while. He offered me 25 rupees. Who could’ve thought of that!
You work all day and you get 10 annas. You let go of your body for ten minutes and you are in for a
nifty twenty-five rupees! No way to make an honest rupee in this world, I am telling you. I gave myself
in to the priest on that night.”
“Oh, my god! Twenty-five rupees for one night. Are you crazy? What did you come here for? You
stupid,” Damayanti wailed.
“You don’t get it, do you? He gave me 25 rupees on the first night. The second day, the price went
down, whush, just like that to five. I waited around for a couple of months. A cop squished me into
dead meat all night and went way without paying a paisa. Another jerk came, forget he paying me, he
snatched away the only rupee I had and took off. I couldn’t take it, not anymore. I decided to move
on. That’s how I ended up here. Here, we have at least uncle Rangaiah to protect us from such a
mayhem; and aunt Rajamma, to give us some food. Yeah, maybe it’s only soup, still it’s something.
And I have you all like sisters if I feel like talking...” Sita, said.
Damayanti noticed somebody at the door and turned to Sumitra. “Look, there’s your Kavi garu , came
for you. I saw his play the other day in the library. Ghosh, God bless his soul! such a touching piece.
He attacked the prostitutes and the institution; he was so brutal I felt sick to the pit of my stomach;
wanted to jump into the river Krishna and kill myself. The play was that powerful, you know!”
Damayanti said.
“Yeah! He spends one half hour with me blabbering all that funny lingo of love—“deream garal,
moyinee” and such. He curls up by my side like a puppy, looking very sad, and asks me why I got into
this muck. I told him that, if he felt so bad, he should marry me and pull me out of this muck. He says
he would when the time came. He talked about something, ‘borothal aaktu’ [brothel act] or some
such thing; said he was working hard to change things... hell,” Sumitra said, and got up to get to work.
These women may not be educated, may not know much, but they do know words like ‘Brothel Act’
and ‘Anti-Nautch Act’. They have heard plenty about these Government laws.
“These men may kick and scream all they want about the Brothel Act. Yet they are no different from
any other male when it comes down to sleeping around. Their male mentality is not going anywhere,”
Damayanti commented.
Kavi garu, the man they were talking about, is about 30-years old. He was wearing a glasgoe shirt
and a dhoti with Culcutta border . He brought a magazine featuring one of his poems. Sumitra came
to him.
Kavi garu held her with his arm around her waist, and said, “You are looking gorgeous, in this rose-
colored sari.”
“Good, let’s go to a movie,” Sumitra suggested.
Going to a movie with this gorgeous woman on his arm was not one of his choice activities. It could
lead to disaster if his friends or acquaintances saw them together.
“Not now, Sumi! I will explain it to you later. Here, see this magazine. I brought it for you,” he said
coaxingly her and walked her into the next room. Sumitra can read minimally though. She reads
magazines and books. She enjoys especially stories of damsels in distress and the knights in shining
armor. She enjoys being that heroin. That’s why she followed him into the next room without any more
fuss.
The few items made available to them in that room sum up their lives: a worn-out tape-cot with
tattered tape hanging loosely, a filthy sheet spread on the cot, a grubby pillow, partly torn and the
cotton-stuffing falling out, a water jug, a glass tumbler sitting on a stool in one corner of the room,
and, a grubby mirror on the wall. There are three such rooms in that house. This one is middle level
intended for people with limited means.
The next room is for high-class people. That room has a mattress, a chair, a table and a flower vase
with paper flowers. This room gets a little light and air as well. The third room is darn cheap, has a
straw mat and a gunny sack stuffed with coconut strands for a pillow. A mud pot and an aluminum
tumbler are kept in a corner.
The only plausible facility for this ‘hell on the earth’ is the protection Rangaiah provides for the
women. Whenever policemen show up at the door, he talks to them and fixes the problem. In return,
the women provide ‘service’ for the policemen at no cost. The women are busy most of the time.
Hardly any of the women has a minute for herself. If, by some stroke of luck, one of them finds some
free time, either Rangaiah or some cop would fill that time-slot.
In general, the women are entitled to the use of the first room during the first six months of their
arrival. Their faces look okay during that period. After a year or so, they are moved to the second
room. The charge for the second room is two and a half rupees per night. By the time they get to the
second room their faces look worn out and their cheeks sunken. After six months they are moved to
the third room. The charge for the third room is three quarters of a rupee, darn cheap. By the time
they enter this room, they lose their hair, their teeth loosen and they start walking with their feet apart
and painfully. By the end of the second year, half of them end up on the sidewalks begging for lose
change. Half of them will be carrying a baby, a hopeless lump of human flesh, with one big red hole
for mouth and nose.
The customers in the first room are doctors, lawyers and businessmen. Mid-level office employees,
students, and teachers use the second room. The third room serves the purpose for the elderly men,
horse-cart drivers, railway porters, and such. All these males go wild anytime a new woman shows up
in town as if it were a special holiday. Police inspectors can pick any woman as they please. If they
were displeased they are sure to exercise their authority and throw the women in jail
…
Back to the story: A snake-charmer’s wife brought in two babies. Anasuya and Arundhati took the
babies, one each, and proceeded to their customers’ houses. The baby is a ruse for the woman to
pass as a family woman. The same men who hanker for other women in order to satisfy their own
carnal pleasures, and the police officers who are supposed to protect the women from abuse and
atrocities, are kindly disposed toward these women who present themselves as mothers! What a
great country we live in! Amazing-- the unique veneration we profess for the magnificent concept of
motherhood!
Arundhati walked and walked and walked and after what seemed to be an eternity finally arrived at a
narrow lane. She stopped at a house and knocked on the door three times. A man, wearing a
checkered lungi and knit T-shirt, opened the door. He grabbed Arundhati by her hair and dragged
her in as he bawled, “You bitch, you are late.”
Arundhati, stifling her pain, replied, “you know, sir, I had to take the round about route to dodge the
cops.”
The man did not say another word. He yanked the baby from her, threw him into a corner and seized
her with a brute force. Fifteen minutes passed by. The child was crying all that while.
Another fifteen minutes passed before Arundhati was let go. Now, there were fresh bruises on her
cheeks and lips. Her hair was messy. She could hardly walk with the baby in her arms. The child was
crying non-stop. She felt a quiver in her heart and held him tight to her bosom.
Anasuya, holding the two-year old baby in her arms, went to a room rented by four students, future
leaders of India and the backbone of our great nation! They would share her, a common practice
among college students. The students were aware that if the landlady saw Anasuya she would flog
them alive. Therefore, the students would usually wait until the landlady went to the temple, and then,
send a message to Rajamma. Today, Rajamma sent Anasuya to their room. As soon as they saw
Anasuya they stood up.
“Did you send for a woman?” Anasuya asked them, to make sure.
They haggled briefly about the rate. The terms for exchanging the much-venerated chastity of the
woman were agreed upon. The men offered one and quarter rupee per person or five rupees total.
Anasuya agreed.
“Hey, Yajulu, check the baby. Maybe, we could have her too,” Setti suggested.
“Why not? That’s a female too, right? A chick is a chick; age makes no difference. Seems like she is
in good shape,” replied another student.
Anasuya felt sick. “Please, leave her alone,” she begged them.
Her words did not stop them. On the other hand one of them found it even more exciting. He poked
the smiling baby with his finger. Yajulu felt sick in the pit of his stomach.
“Stop. Are you a beast or what?’ he screamed.
The four men rearranged the furniture in a rush, in preparation for their lewd venture. They raised a
tape-cot and covered it with a bedspread to make a temporary partition. Anasuya went behind the
screen. The four students went behind the screen, one by one in turn. Each one of them took about
a half hour.
After the ritual was over, the students poured coffee from thermos and sat down sipping. The baby
was staring at them with hungry looks. One of them spilled some coffee on the floor. The baby
slouched on her belly and started licking the coffee off the floor. Anasuya came out of the hideout.
She hoped they would give her some coffee but no such luck. She took the five rupees they handed
her, waited until the baby finished licking the coffee, and left. She heard one of them say “mush,”
and, others laugh.
Anasuya was walking by Vinoda movie theater and saw a woman at the street corner. The woman did
not look familiar. “I never saw this woman in Vijayawada before,” she told herself but did not stop to
talk to her.
After 4 or 5 days, Anasuya made the connection with the new face and convinced her to join their
group. Her name was Suseela, just arrived from Madras. It is part of human nature, I guess, to be
curious about how others involved in the same business fared in other places. The women in
Rajamma’s establishment started asking questions. They wanted to know how they conduct business
in Madras.
Suseela considered herself civilized since she lived in a big city called Madras. She gave them all the
juicy details about the business in Madras. Isn’t it interesting that almost everyone respects his/her
profession and refers to it as “business”, irrespective of prevelant, general perception of the same!
“I used to live in Teynampet . I was acting small parts in the movies and offering sexual favors on the
side.
I could earn a rupee a day. Actually, my hometown was not too far from here. I went to Madras with
high hopes, for a career in the movies. I headed straight to Madras and got off at the Central Railway
Station. I was scared and was looking a little lost, I suppose. A nice-looking man noticed me and
asked me in Telugu, “Where are you from?”
It felt so good to hear a Telugu sound. I told him everything—where I was from, why I was there, and
all.
He snapped his fingers and said, “No big deal. I can arrange that.” He said that, I resembled
Anjalidevi from every angle.
I was ecstatic, and followed him without thinking twice where I was heading. I had thirty rupees on me
at the time. I thought I could get a break in the movies before I used up my cash.
The gentleman showed me around, sightseeing. Fifteen rupees were gone. Next day, he came
rushing in and said, “I have a part for you in the movies. Come on, get up, quick.” In that moment, he
looked like God for me. We both went to the studio. There were sixty more women and they all were
dressed up pretty much the same way I did. They broke us up into two groups and told us to line up
on either side of the set. The heroine danced on the center stage. I am telling you, that is the
heaven, there is no other place. As for me, the life is meaningless if you don’t act in the movies. After
the dance, somebody yelled, “Cut.”
“Cut? What’s that?” Damayanti asked.
“Well, you know, they say ‘cut’ after the ‘shot’. I got two rupees for my share. I didn’t get any other
part though for a couple of weeks. Now, the remaining fifteen rupees I brought with me also was
gone. The man who was supposed help me disappeared without a trace. I was lost for a while. I
couldn’t go home either. Then came the extra-supplier into my life. Sometimes you get four or five
parts in one month. At other times you get nothing. Finally, it became obvious that there was no way I
could get by without doing the business. That’s how I got into this business.”
“Are you saying the men in Madras are also the same?” Damayanti asked.
“All the men in the entire world are the same when it comes to sex, no difference,” Sumitra said.
“Well, here, men say, ‘this is what I want. You name the price’. It’s different in Madras. It is up to them.
Anyway, I joined the friends’ circle,” Suseela continued.
“Friends’ circle? What’s that?” Subbulu asked, puzzled.
“Something like a group of people or a club. A man named Sahasranamam was the president of the
friends’ circle. He was 60-years old. It’is good for our business to become a member in the club. They
would maintain a list of all the members in the club. Sometimes, they plan a picnic. Both males and
females can become members and they make new friends at the picnic. My neighbor, Thangammal
made friends, with a rich doctor. She got lucky, I must say. The only problem is, unless you sleep with
that old rat, Sahasranamam, you can’t get membership; the foxy scoundrel. He sent for me one day
and I went there. He told me to follow a woman, she was slick, you know. Two men were waiting for
us. That was so strange. Remember the movie I was in? the producer of that movie was also there. I
recognized him but he didn’t recognize me. I liked the second man better. He treated me like a
person, you know. After that I met him a few times and listened to his problems. He said, he had any
number of lovers—teachers, nurses, movie stars, and whores, a million of them, he said,” Suseela
continued to narrate her story.
“You are bluffing. Are you telling us that he had so many women running after him, and still, came to
you?” Ratnam expressed her disbelief.
“No, that’s not what I said. I said I was running after him. He did say the truth. I saw the other women
with my own two eyes. One day, I went to see him and saw a woman walking out of his room. She
threw sizzling looks at me. I could see she was a family woman. After that I went in. He was not tired at
all. Quite a man! On another day, I saw another woman stunningly beautiful. Then, I saw another
woman with him. They both left in an auto rickshaw. I asked him about her. He didn’t say it, not in so
many words, but later I came to know the whole story from Sahasranamam.’’
It was 1:00 in the afternoon. It was blistering hot. The women in Rajamma’s house were trying to get
some sleep but could not because of the sweltering heat. Only Rajamma could sleep like a baby in
her room because her room has khus khus shades hanging from the windows. The nine women
were chatting with the new woman, Suseela. Her words were very soothing to their thirsty, worn out
ears. They were excited to hear all the amazing business techniques in Madras. As soon as they
heard that Sahasranamam told Suseela the entire story, their ears pricked for the story.
Suseela continued her narration, “The man I was talking about was her husband. I think, she has four
or five children. She sings at concerts and also in the All India Radio. She was born in a high-class
family and was married into a high-class family. The families on both the sides are rich. It’s really
weird. I could understand if she were poor like you and I. It seems, the husband finds men at the
railway station or some other places like high-class hotels and brings them home to prostitute her.
She charged one hundred rupees per night, from what I heard.”
“One hundred rupees!” Their jaws fell, in shock.
“What did you think? It is no joke. Her bedroom looks like a movie set of the heaven. The room has
everything—a fan, air conditioner, and all. You know what I mean. Here we are roasting like pigs for
all the heat. In her room it is so cool like on a rainy day because of that air conditioner. It seems she
will keep coffee and ovaltine in a thermos and all kinds of saris in mirrored closets. She will ask her
customer to pick the sari of his choice.”
The women were listening, spellbound.
“Let’s say, he picks a parrot-green saree. She would take that saree and goes into the next room.
She gives him some magazines to read while she was getting dressed. Her husband would be there
to help with her makeup; he picks a matching colored, velvet blouse, and matching jewelry like
emerald necklace, earrings, and all that. The customer would be just mesmerized. Then she sings for
a little while. She would not get down to business until and unless she was that dazzlingly beautiful,
you know.”
“If, they are so rich, how did the in-laws allow it?” Sita, being the smart one, raised the question.
“That exactly is my point. She became like that only after she turned thirty. It seems, once, while she
was living in their in-law’s home, somebody from a royal family saw her and wanted to have her.
Apparently it was at that time she lost her mind. Later, she came to her senses and realized that if the
in-law’s came to know about it they would kill her. So, the prince struck a deal with the husband. Don’t
ask me, how. I don’t understand it either. That stupid husband of a man, it seems, has even a college
degree. God knows how or why but he went along. He would tell his parents that he and his wife were
going to a movie or something and then fix her up with this prince. That prince paid him ten thousand
rupees, I believe. This went on for about four or five months. Eventually the old couple came to know
about the affair and threw them out.
At first, it was only the prince, and the prince was paying ten thousand rupees, per month. The
husband and the wife got used to the comforts; bought a car, and all other fancy stuff. Then, a
businessman saw her, and offered a diamond necklace, worth 25,000 rupees, for one night; and the
husband and wife got carried away.”
“Twenty five thousand rupees!” Sumitra reached out for a glass of water.
Suseela continued, “The business did not stop, with one night. The prince came to know about it,
and, he beat them up, and threw them out, I mean the husband and the wife. By that time, she has
two children, and pregnant, with a third child. The businessman heard about her pregnancy, and
disappeared, into the thin air. Their life became a public scandal. They’ve gotten used to freeloading.
They sold the car. She delivered the baby. She started getting calls, again. The husband and wife
would dress up nicely, and go to the movies, find some rich customers, and bring them home. They
had a fantastic life, for a while.”
“So, what is the ‘deperance’ [difference] between she and we? Why do we have to wiggle, like this?”
Sumitra asked.
“The ‘deperance’ [difference] is plenty. The men want family women, not us. She is a family woman;
she has a husband, and children. Secondly, she is high class, you see; she is a knockout. Her room
is heaven, like that of Lord Indra. She sings beautifully, speaks English, she can even read, and isn’t
that a lot? What do we have, you and me? The wretched selves, we are! There is one more thing.
She goes to the doctor everyday, and gets a check up just in case, you know. Here we are, all we
have is disease and death,” Suseela said.
“True, all we have are diseases, wretched life for sure,” Damayanti spit, in disgust.
“She conducts business at night and early in the morning prays to her family gods and Tulasi plant ,”
Suseela added.
“You mean, she eats meat but does wear the bones in her neck as we do. What is wrong with that
idiot of a husband, anyways? You said he has a bachelor’s degree. Why can’t he go out, get a job,
and support his family? Why jerk around with his wife like this,” Savitri commented.
“You don’t get it, do you? What kind of job could he get with his B.A. degree? How can they have all
that fancy stuff like the car and two-story building with a few hundred rupees per month he could
earn? You mentioned something, what is that, ‘kandeesanu’ [Conditioner] or something? How could
he get that? Where could she get the gorgeous sarees and all that stuff?” said Sumitra, a.k.a., Sumi
Kavi’s lover.
You get great flowers in Madras and wonderful sweets [desserts] in Hyderabad. Each city is famous
for something, known for its own specialty. When it comes to a woman selling her body, all the cities
and townships are the same. The only difference is the way you refer to them—you’d say ‘extra
beauties’ in Teynampet, and ‘Parsi splendor’ in Pyari bazaar. That’s all.
Kavi garu, Sumitra’s lover, is crazy about ‘pativratyam’ in women. That is because he is a womanizer.
Usually, people find gratification in writing about the things they cannot cherish in real life. He is one
of them. He has wife and children.
Kavi garu sat down and in the living room and busy writing something. His wife was sitting on the
floor, across from him, and cleaning dal. Their child was playing with a drum-cart. The environment
was not conducive to his writing activity. Kavi garu stopped writing and started reading poetry aloud.
Into this rumpus, a gentleman walked.
The kind and caring gentleman was about 40-years old. Kavi garu saw him and invited him heartily,
“Come in.” The gentleman came in and sat in a chair facing Kavi garu.
Kavi garu said, “Great men like you do not show up without a reason. What is yours?” he asked.
“Did you hear about the Asram I started a while ago?’’
“Yes, yes. Of course, I heard about it. The one on the west end of the town, right?”
“Right. I came here to talk to you about the Asram.”
“Of course, anything. Tell me whatever you need. Do you want me to write a play?”
“This is what I’m thinking. Currently, we have four destitute women in the Asram. You know, how
difficult it is to feed four persons. I am trying to raise funds for that purpose. I will be eternally grateful
to you if you could sign up for a monthly contribution to the Asram.”
“Let me ask you this first. Why are you bothered about fixing the world? You can never straighten
those roguish bitches. Besides, you also know, that we are not talking about one or two women here.
There are millions of them. How can you save them all? Why don’t you put them to work?”
“I am trying, I tried to have ‘papad’ made by them and sell. Nobody would come forward to buy them.
They would say with a snicker ‘papad from Asram?’ or ‘papad made by those bitches?’ You know,
these women are not educated and have no skills for any other job.”
“Look, Pantulu garu , no matter how you see it there are more than one thousand wanton women in
this town alone. What is the point in trying to save four women?”
“I know it is a fierce struggle, even to save four women. I am hoping to help these four women, that’s
a start. If I could find a footing for these four women, I am sure I can help them to stand on their legs.
All I need is a little support from people like you.”
“Certainly I will. It’s ironic after the government has introduced the Brothel Act this has become a
booming business. Do you know that in Russia and Japan they have to register like any other
profession? The government issues them a green ticket and also provides medical care, regular
check ups, and all that. I think we should have similar policy in our country too.”
“I saw your play recently. It was good. You have depicted the condition of the prostitutes very well;
how the prostitute destroyed the hero, and how his wife was wailing… it was very much like
“Chintamani” . Anyways, let us talk about your contribution.”
“Yes, I was coming to that point. You will have to excuse me in this regard. I have a family to support,
you see.”
“Kavi garu, I am not asking for much. Even two rupees per month would go long ways. You know it is
not much. If people like you hold back where else can I go?”
“Two rupees! I was thinking more on the lines of a quarter of a rupee. Don’t push me to the wall.”
“Namesthe.” Pantulu garu stood up, and left.
As soon as he was out of sight Kavi snickered, “I have seen them all. All that talk about rescuing
women! Who’s he kidding? The whole world knows that he is supporting four sluts.”
The wife finished cleaning dal, poured it back into the tin box, stretched her legs, and started chewing
betal nut. She knows full well the real character of her husband.
“That gentleman came asking for help, for a good cause and you offered a quarter, quaa..rr…t..er…,
wretched quarter. Why don’t you go and have your head shaved for that quarter,” she said, enraged.
“You shut up. I have better things to do than throwing away my money on contributions like that. That
idiot announced to the world, ‘I am keeping four bitches and you help me to support them’. You think I
am not smart enough to see that.”
“Of course, you won’t. If all the women go to the Asram, where can you find women for your fun? That
is the real reason behind no man coming forward to support Pantulu garu in his struggle.”
“You rot in hell. Whoever could save them? Premchand wrote about these miserable women in Hindi.
There is also a Russian novel, ‘Yama’. Now, there is a play in Telugu written by me. If anything I am
the only one to do something to save these women.”
“Don’t I know? You sat down with the play ‘Chintamani’ by your side, switched the names- Syamala
for Chintamani, Suseela for Radha, and Rama Rao for Bilvamangaludu- and copied the entire play.
Don’t even try to bluff, not around me.”
“Shut your mouth. Good conduct does not mean following the worn out practices. Is that your
critique? All right, you tell me how to rewrite bringing it up to modern times. I’m listening. Go on, tell
me. It is not like mouthing off empty words, my dear! Action, that is what’s important. You tell me, how
you can support one thousand women?”
“That is no big deal. However, I must give it to you. Intellectuals like you would not listen to me. Let all
the pillars of the society, all the leaders, muster their strength, start an Asram, round up all the
destitute women, using force if necessary, put them in an Asram, and teach them skills necessary to
earn their livelihood. That is not a humongous task, is it? It’s true the women would resist at first.
However if gentlemen like you start treating them as humans, they certainly would change their
minds. I will guarantee it. Men like you would never do that. That is the real reason those women
refuse to join the Asram. Let me tell you, there is something else. If, the women were educated in the
first place, they would have learned to think for themselves. No, that did not happen. On the other
hand, they left it to people like you to think on their behalf, and all you have is only crooked thoughts!
By some fluke, some gentleman like Pantulu garu comes forward to do some good and men like you
rise up in arms; and, all you do is slander him. One quarter of a rupee? You chew pan leaves like a
goat everyday and that costs half a rupee per day. You offered half of that. Shame on you. Pantulu
garu has seen your true color today, you a great writer!”
“Wow! What a lecture! Your father sent you to school and now I am in trouble.”
“Good. Otherwise, I also would have kept quiet even after seeing your true colors. It is only because
of my education, I could manage the household. Imagine what would have happened if I had listened
to you and ran away with you instead of going to school! Probably, I would have ended up in the
same profession in Teynampet or some other, similar neighborhood. Education does not mean just
reading; it is about, the worldly knowledge. Look at my uncle’s daughter.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot to mention. It seems, that daughter of your uncle also landed in the same Asram
run by Pantulu garu. Probably, you know that through your women folks’ intelligence agency. Is that
why you are so keyed up on giving money to the Asram?”
“You have such a crooked mind! Is this my karma or what? Never mind. Have you ever had any
plausible idea in your life? You are so full of it; you call yourself a writer. You never write about the
hunger in the world. You’d scribble six pages describing Urvasi serving heavenly nectar to Indra in
the heaven ! It is so boring to say the least. Did you ever write about the miserable woman who
contracted a venereal disease and died like a dog on the street? You scribble away ten pages
extolling the virtues of Sita—a topic that has been written over and over by million others. What is the
point of all your writing, anyways? If you ask me, a real writer writes about the realities of life. Rest of
you are writers of chaff who write about chastity in the name of love, paternal devotion, and all that
muck.”
“Go to hell, you and your stupid critique. How could a buffalo relish the taste of sweet rice?”
“Exactly, I feel the same way. What is the point of standing on the shore and taking pictures of a man
drownin in the lake? You must pull him out of the water first, administer first aid and then take as
many pictures as you like. You are fighting in the air if you ask me. It is meaningless to plagiarize
“Chintamani” play and tout your horn as a writer. You know the proverb, the bloody sores of a bull
are delicious to a crow! ”
On the eastern shores of Krishna River, there is a small, fenced-in hut. Beautiful creepers like
radhamanoharam, bluebells, and jasmine, spread over the fence and are pleasing to the eye. In front
of the hut, there are flowerbeds of marigold, chandrakantam, chamanti, kanakambaram, bursting
splendidly like an arrogant, young woman shattering the shackles of tradition. That hut is the Asram
for the fallen women, the one Pantulu garu started. There are four women in that hut. They are
wearing hand-woven sarees. One of them was looking slightly different. She is Parvati, Kavi’s wife’s
cousin.
The other three women were standing under the flower bushes and whispering. They hated Parvati
for her brains and her good looks. Isn’t that the way the world is? Fallen may be, yet they are not
above the normal desires and jealousies that are natural to any human being. They want to avenge
themselves on the world. They are convinced that Pantulu garu treated Parvati as someone special
and that was because there was that “thing” going on between the two. They were hurt that Pantulu
garu did not have “that thing” for them. In their minds, they had a good life, had good food, and
Pantulu garu seduced them with false promises and now they are left with no choice but to swallow
this bland food served to them day after day. The world labeled them as “kept women” of Pantulu
garu. The women were broken-hearted, because they were “not kept”. As far as they were
concerned, they were the losers no matter how you looked at it. We have to give it to Pantulu garu
for walking on this double-edged sword! It is only a matter of time before he got his legs chopped off
by that sword.
On that particular day the same thing happened. Parvati and Pantulu garu were inside the hut
discussing their strategy for running the Asram. The three women, standing under the bushes
outside, were convinced that Pantulu garu and Parvati were involved in a romantic chat. That a man
and woman could discuss other things was beyond the scope of their comprehension.
Inside the hut, Pantulu garu sat on a chair and Parvati sat on a mat, looking down. She slowly lifted
her head and asked, “So, you could not get even ten rupees?”
“No, I couldn’t raise any money, not even ten rupees, child! I went around, until my feet turned sore.
All the rich businessmen, doctors, lawyers--every one of them showed empty hand. Even your
cousin, Kavi garu, said he could write a play for us but no money.”
“Did he specifically say that? Did you ask his wife, my cousin?”
“She was in the room right there when I was asking him. He offered a quarter of a rupee. I left without
another word.”
“I think, good deeds are rewarded only with defeat in this world. Here the three women are just
waiting to go back to their old profession; it is only a matter of time. The public are ridiculing us and
the government has no plans to help us in our humanitarian efforts. All I can think of is to leave it to
the God. ‘Only He can save us’ is a charming phrase but not a solution for survival on a day-to-day
basis. Moreover, the women are complaining that we are not serving them meat, fish, and eggs, as if
they’re sons-in-law! They keep complaining that I, being the cook, choose to eat the best items, and
also because I come from a higher caste. What a headache!” Parvati sighed, exasperated.
“Look, Parvati! There is a way if we set our minds to it, if want this Asram to succeed and to
accomplish our goals. That’s actually in your hands. Will you promise me that you will listen to me?”
“You don’t have to ask me, sir. Of course, I will listen to you. Tell me what can I do.”
“Simple. You are beautiful and smart and a talented singer too. I have a friend, a film producer. I sent
your photograph to him and got his response too, yesterday. He agreed to book you as heroine in
his picture. What do you say?”
Parvati was silent for a few minutes. In order to accomplish their goals, they need money; and, she
could become a movie star to earn that money. Would it be wrong to become a movie star?
Prostitution could be wrong; stealing could be wrong; but how could acting be wrong especially when
it is for a noble cause? It made sense. Parvati agreed. Pantulu garu was elated.
“Look Parvati, you will earn a lot of money and status, no doubt. Never let the money and glory
overtake your ideals. Your goal must still be this place. Now, get up and get ready. You must leave
the day after tomorrow,” he said and got up from his chair.
Kavi garu entered Rajamma’s house, and went straight to Sumitra’s room. Sumitra was lying on the
bed, curled up. Kavi garu had not seen her for six weeks. He thought that Sumitra was upset because
he did not visit her for so long.
“My love!” he said, imitating classic heroes.
Sumitra did not respond.
“Sumi, come on, I will be upset, dear, if you don’t talk to me,” he said.
Still, there was no response from Sumitra. He sat by her side and pulled her toward him gently. “Are
you angry with me, my love?” he asked, again, sounding dramatic.
Sumitra couldn’t help laughing.
“Are you saying this is all your love for me?” She said.
“What kind of question is that? Of course, I love you. You don’t doubt that, do you?” he said.
“Okay, I am not going to deny that you love me. You will do anything for me, right? You will never
leave me, right?”
“Never. How can I leave you and live, my little love? Come on, Look at me…”
“Wait, don’t rush. There is something, I want to tell you. I was waiting for you. How come you didn’t
show for over a month?”
“I went out of town, Sumi! Shh, shh. You are wasting time talking empty words. Come on turn around.
Look at me…”
“Wait, wait… You… are really something else. First, you need to take care of my health and then only
you can touch me. The pain is killing me.”
Kavi garu was shocked. He was silent for a few seconds and then asked her what her problem was.
His voice did not sound sweet anymore.
Sumitra pulled up her saree and showed the marks on her body—red spots, size of her palm, just a
little above the knee, the marks of the frightening disease, syphilis.
It was nine in the morning. Sumitra lay on her bed and cried her eyes out. Sita sat next to her.
Sumitra got up, dabbed her tears and said, softly, “Sita, I want to tell you something. Will you listen to
me?”
“Yes, sister, tell me. What is it?” Sita said.
“Sita, I have fifty rupees. You take that money, my saris, and my earrings. You are still young. Escape
from this horrible, kite-like life while you can. Find a decent living. All these comforts are like water
bubbles. Go to Pantulu gari Asram.”
“Oh, no. I can’t take your saris and earrings.” Sita protested, vehemently.
“Wait. Let me finish. Do you remember the military man? He came here two weeks back. He paid me
fifty rupees, and gave me this disease, syphilis, also in the process. Do you remember the woman we
saw yesterday on our way to the movies? She had a big red hole for mouth and nose. That is how I
am going to look soon. All this while, up until now, I was hoping, that Kavi garu would take care of me;
all that stupid talk about love; and, all that chattering... Now he is gone. He won’t evem look at me. He
will never come to me again. He is with Ratnamanjiram now, I heard. I’m telling you, Sita, this is a
despicable life. Tell me. Will you go to the Asram?”
“I am not sure. I am scared.”
“Scared of what? You silly, come on, promise me, that you will go to the Asram.”
“Okay, I will. But you tell me that you will go to the doctor for sure.”
“What for? There is no cure for this disease. I am done, for life. I will stay here, and infect every
scoundrel that visits this place. Let the rogues die the same way I’m dying.”
Sita went to the Asram.
Pantulu garu was happy, that, after Parvati left for Madras, there are four women in the Asram,. The
reality however was different. Two of the women heard about Rajamma’s house and ran away. Those
young women, being in the prime of their lives, wanted male company. That was not all. The life in the
Asram was too flat for them, insipid. No man would come forward to marry them and so prostitution
was the only recourse. Even if somebody had shown them a way of earning their livelihood, that
would not satisfy their need for a man. We have to admit that Pantulu garu was off base in that
regard.
Parvati was keen on achieving her goal. She wanted to do the best she could and leave the rest to
the will of God. Therefore she left for Madras. The train was running at a high speed; so also were
her thoughts. The train stopped at some railway station. She looked out the window at the sky. She
watched the kites flying high and unfettered. She turned her eyes to the ground and looked at the
water bubbles bursting. The kites reminded her of men and the water bubbles of women. The train
started to move. The time won’t stop for any reason. Kites would keep flying and the water bubbles
would keep bursting in much the same way as the train won’t quit moving.
Kavi garu was lying on the couch, somewhat dispirited. His wife was braiding her daughter’s hair.
Kavi garu heard about Sumitra’s suicide and that was bothering him. He felt responsible for her
suicide. Every human being has a conscience somewhere in some dark corner which keeps giving
him or her signals. However, the humans keep stifling it until it was totally destroyed. Kavi garu kept
bemoaning his stupid act and its consequences:
He used her for his pleasures for more than a year. As soon as she fell sick, he walked away. He
walked away from her as if she were a sick dog. That was not all. He went and teamed up with
another woman who was living in the same house. He told the second woman that the same words he
said to Sumitra and through the same mouth. What did she do? Went and killed herself. Kavi garu
could not help noticing the irony in all this. Sumitra was frank enough to tell him of her disease. He,
for his part, could not accept the responsibility and so just pushed her away. Ratnamanjiram, on the
other hand, kept her disease a secret and quietly passed it on to him. God will not forgive him for
deceiving Sumitra. Sumitra killed herself by hanging from the ceiling; her eyes and tongue stuck out;
it was a revolting sight, and her saree was soiled in the final moments of her life. What a horrible
sight… And who was responsible for that? He was. He himself was responsible for her miseries and
horrible death. Kavi garu, suddenly felt like her dead body was laughing at him, ridiculing him
because he was also afflicted with the same disease. This curse will go down his lineage for
centuries. There is his wife. He robbed her of her health too. The children are like pure pearls. These
children will drink from the same glass he and his wife drank. They’d come to him and say, ‘Dad, let
me have a piece of curry from your plate,’ and they’d eat from his plate; they’ll also contract his
disease… Their golden future will go to the dogs… He has nobody but himself to blame. Kavi garu
broke down and started crying desperately.
Kavi’s wife was confused. She came running to him and asked him, with concern, “What’s wrong,
now? Why are you crying?”
He went into a fit of wailing again.
“Come, come, talk to me. What happened? Did the creditors threaten us with a lawsuit? Or, your
lover is asking for a gold necklace? Come on, stop crying like a woman and tell me what happened?”
she went on coaxing him.
Kavi garu buried his face in her lap and told her the entire story. She was aware that her husband
was a womanizer. She could forgive his weakness but it was his meanness that flipped her totally. As
soon as she heard the reason for Sumitra’s suicide her heart boiled. She flew into a wild rage, “This
stupid Brothel Act did more harm in reality than good to the world. In the past, there used to be
beautiful, healthy courtesans waiting to serve idiots like you. They all lived in one neighborhood. Now,
we have these playgirls right in the middle of family circles. Selling female bodies has become a
booming business. Cch, cch. What a country? What a life? …People, pretending to be conducting
honest businesses are conducting prostitution in broad daylight… We have the police officers what
for? They are no different from any other male; and men like you are their patrons. What did you do?
You had your fun, used her for your pleasure, and then, turned her off into the streets like a dog, as
soon as you heard that she has contracted a disease. She is dead. God knows how many other
women are dying like this everyday! Whom should we blame? You no doubt, it is your fault and the
likes of you. Did you ever write about a woman, I mean, really? Did you try to depict their horrendous
lives? You became a Kavi after some politician honored you. It is your fault; you, as a Kavi, should
accept this responsibility.”
Kavi garu heard her words and pulled his hair in despair. But she did not stop. She kept ranting,
pouring insults on her husband and the entire world.
“Frankly, the entire male population is sick, if you ask me. You should get syphilis and all other
diseases and should rot in hell. I told you several times but you wouldn’t listen. I couldn’t care less
whether you listened to me or not. What about your responsibility to the society? Did you think about
that? Take a good hard look. You’ll see prostitution everywhere and here in particular. We have
them, dime a dozen, everywhere, every nook and corner, near movie theaters, and under the trees—
conducting their business in public. Our dim-witted government wouldn’t give a damn. The God doesn’
t give a damn. He is up in his heaven, basking in his own glory. Thanks to these prostitutes, diseases
are spreading and families are being ruined. And the innocent, little children are dying for no good
reason. Pch, pch.”
“Please forgive me, I am begging for your forgiveness. I will never do this again.”
“Never again? What a joke? What CAN you do, even if you want to? You are afflicted with syphilis;
you know, and God knows you have no other choice but be good, really. No man in the world is as
high-minded as a Eunuch! You have nobody but yourself to blame; you ruined your own life.
Anyway, what is the point of blaming you. The entire world is rotten and is wasting away into
nothingness. The whole world is afflicted with syphilis. Talk about the Anti-nautch Act! Ha, ha! That is
another hoax, no more than butter in a butternut gourd! Not any different from the Prohibition Act.
You know, after the law was put in place, those businesses doubled; every house has started making
beer at home like soup. After the Anti-nautch Act had passed, the law-enforcement officers are
practically living amidst the prostitutes. The brothel houses are opened right in the heart of the town,
in residential neighborhoods. Remember the proverb—ha, you carved a man ’n you got a chimp
instead. To hell with you all. As far as I could see, there are only two things left in the entire world—
irresponsible men flying high in the sky like kites and the helpless, fallen women bursting like water
bubbles. And the most venerated God is sleeping in his heaven.” She was quite stirred up by her
husband’s cruel act and Sumitra’s suicide. Some people look passive and weak. But, in their hearts
they feel, resident underneath, mountains and lotus flowers. Depending on the specific situation,
either the mountain explodes like a volcano or the flower blossoms. Kavi’s wife is one of such people.
She kept badgering her husband, the world, and God. Then she felt that that was not what she
should be doing. She was not sure what she should do either, or, how could she cure the cancerous
cells that were eating up the world for that matter.
A low-paid clerk from a small local administrative office came forward to marry Sita. He has no
parents. Pantulu garu offered five thousand rupees as dowry. The clerk thought the money could
come in handy, he could buy a small house in a nice neighborhood. He has been struggling with
poverty all this life. That money was a big break for him, once in a lifetime chance. It didn’t matter
whether Sita was a chaste woman or a prostitute. He decided that he would worry about it later.
The clerk’s name was Subba Rao. He was one of the million Subba Rao’s in the country. This Subba
Rao did not agree to marry Sita for love or out of the goodness of his heart. He considered it simply a
stroke of luck that a good for nothing fellow like himself should run into such huge sum of money. He
fell in love with and was prepared to marry the money not the woman.
A movie named “Acchamma seemantham”, produced by Aggiraja productions, put Parvati’s name on
the billboards all over Andhra Pradesh. Parvati did not forget her original purpose though. She
offered five thousand rupees from her income to Pantulu garu for Sita’s marriage. The newspapers
printed huge headlines featuring Parvati’s generosity and Subba Rao’s integrity as a bighearted man
that married a prostitute.
The marriage of Sita and Subba Rao was performed on a modest scale.Tthe couple exchanged
flower garlands. Sita spent ten rupees from the money Sumitra gave her, got a gold tali made, and
wore around her neck . She firmly believed that she owed her luck, having a husband and a home, to
Sumitra. She was elated at the thought and joined both her hands and expressed heartfelt gratitude
to Sumitra and Parvati.
Sita’s marital bliss started in a small apartment on a small, filthy lane. Even on that narrow lane, there
was a brothel house. Sita saw them, labeled ‘fallen women’, and felt good that she was ‘a family
woman’ now. Subba Rao could not understand why Sita was so proud of him. For him the life was the
same as always—he would eat, go to work and come back, no difference in his routine. He knew
subconsciously that any other woman from a respectable family would have treated him like an
insignificant thing, not a person. It was beyond his comprehension to see that Sita was worshipping
him or her reasons for worshipping him. He wouldn’t be able to understand the concept in his lifetime.
Not only that. He was also constantly worried that Sita could be interested in another man, or, who
was she looking at? Who was she talking to? and so on. He strongly believed that this catty woman
could never be a person of integrity. Come to think of it, it’s ridiculous even to expect that his little
mind could comprehend, could reach any level, higher than that.
One day, Subba Rao returned from work and saw Sita standing at the door, and at a distance
somebody was riding a bike. He was furious. Standing like Gaggayya , he screamed, “Why are you
standing here? Who’s that scoundrel on the bike? Don’t you ever try to play games with me… You,
low-life b…”
Sita was stunned. Until now she believed that only men at Rajamma’s house could use such cheap,
abusive terminology. She was shocked to hear the same words from her husband, Subba Rao. Are
all the men in the world the same when it comes to addressing a woman? She wondered.
Sita lived like this for a year. In that one year, Subba Rao’s behavior made her wonder several times
how this house was better than Rajamma’s? Sita was also, pregnant now. She could feel the little
fetus move in her tummy, and that was the only thing that brightened her days. The thought that her
baby would have a father pleased her.
Subba Rao deposited the dowry money, five thousand rupees, in a bank. In general, he did not trust
Sita. For the same reason he did not feel obligated to feed her either. One day, she, being pregnant,
had a craving for upma . That was an unnecessary expense, said Subba Rao. She kept quiet. In our
country, a woman’s word means nothing; and,it is worse if the word came from a fallen woman.
Sita gave birth to a boy. She had the delivery in a government hospital . On the eleventh day, she
hired a rickshaw and came home with the baby. She went in and asked Subba Rao for six annas to
pay to the rickshaw driver.
Subba Rao flipped. “Why didn’t walk home? Where do we have the money to throw away on a
rickshaw? You know what! I don’t care. You find the money yourself or go to hell,” he shouted. These
were also some exemplary phrases interspersed in his ranting. Sita couldn’t speak; she stood there
with the baby, held tight to her chest. She did not have six annas. She understood for the first time
that she made a big mistake when she gave the money, she got from Sumitra, to Subba Rao.
The rickshaw driver was standing in the front yard and watching the argument between the husband
and the wife and felt sorry for Sita. He said to Subba Rao, “Hey, are you nuts? She just had baby.
How could ask her to walk from the hospital. You don’t know me. You had better pay my fare or
else…”
Subba Rao was not only a two-bit idiot,but also a coward. He understood that the rickshaw driver
meant business. He paid rickshaw driver the fare grudgingly though.
Sita was looking forward to this moment--showing off her little baby. She was disappointed. She went
in, heated water for a bath for herself and the baby. She looked at the baby and was overwhelmed
with happiness. One day, she tried to show the baby to Subba Rao, hoping he would be as excited as
she was. He turned away. Sita did not notice it. “Here is your dad,” she said to the baby and was
about to hand him to Subba Rao.
“Dad? What dad? Who is dad for this son of a bitch?” he laughed loud and walked away.
Sita’s self-esteem which was lying low until now lept like a cobra hood. What could she do, though?
She tried to convince herself that that was his upbringing, and hugged the baby to her bosom. She
was not sure which one was the real hell—Rajamma’s house or Subba Rao’s house? Now she knew
that she mistook this house for heaven. However, the little baby was the one precious gem she has
gotten amidst all this disaster. She has learned to find comfort in the baby in her arms and forget all
her pain. She would put the cot in a corner, lay down the baby and cover him fully with her old saris,
by the time Subba Rao got home. Subba Rao hated the baby. One day, he saw the baby on the
floor. “Why did you leave this thing on the floor,” he said, kicking him. The child started crying. That
was the reason Sita was keeping the baby out of Subba Rao’s sight.
One day, the baby was sick, couldn’t breathe. Sita told Subba Rao about it with tearful eyes.
Subba Rao replied rudely, “Don’t worry. He is not going to die; and if does, no big loss. You can bear
any number of children, woman of the town!” and left for work. Sita could not sit there, doing nothing
about the illness. She picked him up, bolted the door, and took him to the clinic round corner.
The doctor was kind. He checked the child and expressed concern. Sita’s heart sunk.
“What is the matter, doctor!” She started weeping.
The doctor jotted down a prescription and said, “We need to administer these shots within twenty four
hours or we might lose the child.”
Sita returned home, with the prescription. She told Subba Rao as soon as he came home. Subba
Rao hit the roof. He said he did not have the money to pay for the medications of all the s.o.b.s in the
world. Sita begged him. He became even more stubborn. She cried. He laughed. She came to a
frightening decision. In a fit of anger, she tore the tali and the black beads from her neck and threw
them in his face, picked up the child, got into a rickshaw, and told the rickshaw driver to take her to
Rajamma’s house. .
.
The child’s health improved in a few days and the mother also started feeling better. She never went
back to Subba Rao. Actually, that was what Subba Rao also hoping for. Sita was still c onfused about
the difference between the two houses—that of Subba Rao and Rajamma. For her, both the places
seemed to be the same. There was one consolation here—she was raising her son on her own
income.
Kavi garu became a strong believer in monogamy now. Not only that. He even started paying a
monthly donation, ten rupees, to the Asram. He wrote two more plays, based on the same play,
“Chintamani.” In addition, he decided to contact one of his acquaintances, a female writer,
Madhavidevi, and encourage her to write an article on the brothel houses in the country. He also
prepared a list of all the brothel houses for publication. Madhavidevi told him that she would like to
visit a brothel house and obtain necessary information first hand before writing the article. Kavi garu
took her to Rajamma’s house.
Kavi garu and Madhavidevi arrived at Rajamma’s house at two in the afternoon. The prostitutes were
sleeping. Rangaiah saw that an old customer, Kavi garu, returned and brought a new account also.
He invited both of them enthusiastically and winked at Kavi garu, implying he was pleased at the
prospect.
Kavi garu was hurt. Earlier, he tried to dissuade Madhavidevi from this visit for the same reason. But
Madhavidevi insisted that she had to see the place. Kavi garu was also aware that if he had told
Rangaiah the real reason of their visit, he would be asking for trouble. Rangaiah wouldn’t want their
activities featured prominently in newspapers. Therefore Kavi garu came up with a strategy. He knew
Rangaiah was considering selling this house. Kavi garu introduced Madhavidevi as a prospective
buyer for the house. Rangaiah apologized,and showed them all the rooms.
Madhavidevi couldn’t see any notable philosophy of life in those rooms. All she could see was only
the monstrous side of our society which was bungled, dancing naked, and laughing like a hyena with
a terrifying roar. She took a peek into the first room. A woman was lying across the cot in her
underwear, and her makeup from the night before faded; she was charming in her own way. The
room was smelling of high-class cigarettes. Then they went to the second room. The woman there
was scratching all over even in her sleep. Her face looked worn out and saggy; it was a
heartbreaking and revolting sight. The third room was frightening beyond description. Anybody who
peeks into this room would turn stiff for fear of losing their minds.
Madhavidevi saw a woman sleeping naked covered by a tattered, old saree for a sheet. Her mouth
was half open, and flies were hovering around her mouth. If any man saw a woman in that condition,
in all probability, he would not want to be with a woman again in his life. Madhavidevi’s face turned
into a stone. The entire area was filled with a rancid stink and, in that nauseating surroundings, she
heard a baby’s cry, like the song of a blue bird in the midst of a desert. Madhavidevi turned around
and saw Sita.
Madhavidevi was a little surprised to see the sweet little baby and the mother. She left quickly with
Kavi garu, and then said, “Ask that mother to come with us. I would like to talk to her.” Kavi garu went
in and mumbled something to Sita. Whatever he said it worked. Sita followed them in another
rickshaw to Madhavidevi’s place. She invited Sita in, politely, “Please, come in.”
They all sat down in the living room. Sita looked around and was lost in a reverie, “This is what I’d call
life,” she told herself. Which gods did Madhavidevi worship to deserve this? Whatever she has done
to win this wonderful lifestyle? A man, probably Madhavidevi’s husband, walked into the room. He was
holding a little baby in his hands. Sita tried to compare the two babies, hers and Madhavidevi’s.
Sita was not scared at all. She answered all the questions of Madhavidevi. Madhavidevi took
elaborate notes. It was hard for women like Sita to have a good life in this world. There was one
scene in Rajamma’s house that got to Madhavidevi. That was Rangaiah kicking a sleeping woman to
wake her up. How could anybody be so cold-hearted and kick another human? Even a cowherd
would be more kind to his animals. What is wrong with these two-legged animals? Do they have the
blood of a demon running in their veins? She couldn’t believe the horrible story, Sita narrated. She
understood in that very minute the millions of miles of distance between our fantasies and the reality.
As Sita got up to leave, Madhavidevi gave her five rupees and told her to come to her if she ever
needed anything. Sita left holding her baby tight to her bosom. Madhavidevi took her baby from her
husband and held tight, heaving a deep sigh. There could be so many variations in the lives of
women in the world but when it comes to maternal instinct their responses are the same.
Parvati heard how her well-meaning effort to arrange an ideal marriage spending five thousand
rupees ended. She lost half of her faith. Then, she heard that the other two women in the Asram ran
away. She was totally disgusted with all the female kind. Now she was interested only in taking care of
her bank account. Pantulu garu, also stopped reminding Parvati of her high aims.
In the movie field, the value of feminine charm is much higher than talent and creativity. In fact,
anywhere in the world in general and in India in particular the only way a woman can make a living is
by pawning her femininity. Currently, sex is leading our lives like a train engine. It is true sex is
important but that is not the only thing in life. There is no doubt that, if we could stop looking at sex as
the only thing in life, one half of the problem of prostitution would go away. It is unfortunate that sex
took charge of our lives instead of we, the humans. If we, humans, could take control, the other half
of the problem would disappear. That was how Parvati reorganized her thoughts and rationalized the
life around her which included the institution of prostitution. That was the only way she could go on
with her life. She was too scared to speak them aloud, though.
A couple of magazines asked Parvati to write her autobiography but she couldn’t bring herself to do
that. A woman’s best asset was her cowardice; she would not trust even the path she was walking on.
She was worried every second. That is why many people would say that a woman’s moral downfall
starts with her lack of faith in herself. Even if she had faced defeat due to her weakness, it’s a virtue.
She could get credit from some people.
Parvati is doing well in the movies. Currently, she has roles in 13 movies. She has plenty of money
and status. But the very problem which she wanted to fight, her reason for entering the movie field, is
everywhere. It is like the ten demons that rise from each drop of blood that fell on the ground. She
was stunned, when she found out that so-called extras were earning their living only through
prostitution. She was nauseated to see what was happening in the name of art. Look at our
mythological stories: the Lord Nataraja, the emperor of dance, supposed to have elevated dance to a
form of art; the sage Bharata wrote a treatise on the art of dance; the goddess of learning, Saraswati,
is an expert veena-player, and Parvati, the supreme Mother is a great dancer herself. There was a
time in this country when fine arts were held in highest esteem and the artists were revered. Now, in
the name of those very arts, abominable acts are being presented which in reality is reprehensible.
Parvati couldn’t take it but she has no answer either. She mulled over it for five days and six nights
and concluded that it was beyond her to fix this world. As a result, she made a point of earning
money, lots of it, and save it in the bank.
At the Asram, Pantulu garu continued his work, in the face of great opposition, humiliation, and public
censure. There were three women in the Asram. For some inexplicable reason, the number 3
became somewhat permanent. Sometimes, one woman would leave and immediately another woman
would show up at his door. One way or another, the number became steady like the three gunas.
We all live in this world but the levels vary. Remember Sri Sri’s poem? “Can we call this life?More
like that of a dog, fox, and the lowest of the low life, pigs? Where is this frustration coming from?”
There is nothing wrong in hoping for a better life; it’s just not possible.
Sita was racking her brains. She might not be expressing in the same language as Sri Sri but it was
close. She was totally disgusted with her life after visiting Madhavidevi and talking to her. She was not
sure what she could do either. Her body has been decaying through and through. She was even
feeling guilty to breastfeed her baby for fear of spreading her diseases. She decided that the baby
did not belong with her, should give him away for his own sake. Sita has some writing skills. She
scribbled a little note explaining her reasons for abandoning the baby and hung it round his neck.
Next morning, while it was still dark, she fed the baby and set out to leave. She walked and walked
and finally arrived at Madhavidevi’s house. She spread a sheet on the front porch, made sure that it
was soft and comfortable, and put him on the sheet. The baby was smiling in his sleep.
Sita’s face showed no emotion. Once, just once, she held him to her breasts, kissed him to her heart’
s content and laid him on the sheet gently. Then she fled from the scene. The baby woke up and
started crying. The entire population of mothers felt a jab in the pits of their stomachs in that moment.
The sun was rising slowly. Madhavidevi came out, saw the baby and read the note. She rushed back
into the house, woke up her husband, and sent him out to look for Sita... Two days passed by.
Madhavidevi turned the baby over to an orphanage. The same day a woman’s body was found in the
river Krishna. That was Sita.
Pantulu garu wrote a long letter to Parvati.
Dear Parvati,
I have come to the conclusion that we cannot save the world. I am getting old. The younger
generation has to continue this work but I cannot do this anymore.
The Asram is looking like a club. It is not clear any more whether the gentle folks in town were coming
to visit the Asram or the women. One such visitor eloped with one of the women; another woman went
back to the brothel house; and the third woman killed herself. At present there are no women in the
Asram. Therefore I closed it down. I am planning to go on a pilgrimage.
The issue of man-woman relationship originated the same day the world was created. Today, the
issue is like a huge whale gobbling up our society. Unfortunately, I seem to be the only one to see
that. That is why I am jeered at and looked at as the laughingstock of the town. Now I know
prostituting one’s soul is worse than attempting to close down brothel houses.
Once a person has a desire, he or she would resort to whatever method to satisfy that desire. As
long as there is a desire the conditions to satisfy that desire also continue to exist. The first thing we
need to do is working on the transformation of the soul. The proper setting for ideals is the heart
itself. What need to be rooted out are the wicked thoughts in a person’s heart. I don’t know how that
is possible though. That is the reason I decided to let go of it and move on. The only good thing I did
in my life is to create you. If we could bring about a change in the hearts of people we can help them
better persons. The truth is I don’t know how to change the hearts of people. You may never see me,
or hear from me again.
I just want to tell you one thing though. Man is like a kite and the woman is like a water bubble. You
keep that in your mind always and take care of yourself.
Your uncle,
Pantulu.
Parvati read the letter and sighed. She saw the kites in the sky and the water bubbles on the ground.
The kites were flying freely in the sky and the water bubbles on the ground were popping up. Parvati
closed her eyes in fear.
Suseela decided to return to Madras and Anasuya decided to go along with her. The life in Madras
appeared to be more attractive. Suseela came to Vijayawada in search of a better life. She realized
that in Madras she had a status at the least as a “junior artist”. In Vijayawada, all she has is just the
life of street girl. She was disgusted and decided to go back. On her return trip, she took Anasuya
also, or rather, Anasuya followed her of her own free will.
Suseela and Anasuya rented a filthy room on a narrow lane in Teynampet. They went to an extra-
supplier (agent), and got their names registered. There is really no register as such. Their names are
on the list, so to speak.
A week went by. Most of the money Anasuya had was gone. She started feeling like a wick lamp as
opposed to a blazing torch Suseela appeard to be. She was losing heart and beginning to believe
that life was the same no matter where she went. At that moment, the extra-supplier, Sanga Rao,
came and took them to a movie studio. Anasuya was stunned to see the studio. It was like heaven.
By the time she was finished with her makeup, it felt like her life has taken a huge turn for good; the
grass never looked more beautiful. Suseela told her that it was called ‘lawn’. She nearly lost her mind
when she saw the set of the court of the Lord Indra , the divine king; the mansion was sensational
with all the flowerbeds. Anasuya was a maid on the set and she got to stand next to the greatest star
on earth, Pushpavati. She was totally flipped. She always had such a great admiration for the star,
Pushpavati. This moment alone was worth missing a few meals as far as she was concerned.
There was however one thing that bothered her. The entire crew were waiting hand and foot on
Pushpavati and treating the extras at the same time like they didn’t exist at all.
The shooting started. Pushpavati was dancing on the stage in the court of Indra. The entire court fell
silent but for the ankle bells of the dancer. The dance was exquisite. Anasuya felt ashamed for trying
to compare herself to that extraordinary artist. She did not have that kind of talent; she was only a
streetwalker. Her heart burst like a bubble. Why couldn’t she be like Pushpavati? How could God be
so unkind? She had to sell her body simply because she had no talent of any kind had no other way
to earn a living But, to what extent it was her fault? Was it her fault at all? There are no answers to
such questions.
These ill-fated women would not leave Madras just for these momentary pleasures. They won’t leave
the city even if it meant starving to death. Their withered lives could take comfort for a few minutes on
these movie sets. After the shooting was over they would leave those cheap clothes and walk out
feeling like they were looking into an enlarged picture of their own deplorable lives an expert
photographer was holding up for them to see. What other choice they have? They do have to live
somehow.
Anasuya was standing in Pandi bazaar under a tree since five in the evening and now it was ten. She
was getting tired; tired of standing for what seemed like an eternity. Not one person would look at her.
The other women, better looking and better dressed were walking back and forth pretending to be
busy. The people in the area were familiar with this scene and so paid no attention to them.
“Where are you from?” Anasuya heard somebody yell at her in Tamil. She turned around and saw
two policemen standing there. She did not understand what he said.
“What?” she asked in Telugu.
“I see, a Telugu chick! I am asking you, where is your house?” he said in Telugu callously.
Anasuya was scared.
“Why are you here? Looking for business? It is past ten. You might as well go home,” he said.
Anasuya turned around to go home. As she was leaving she heard the policeman say, “Most of these
women are from Telugu area. This business is getting worse, by the minute,” and a laugh.
Anasuya dragged herself home. Suseela was already home, was sleeping. Anasuya did not eat all
day. She fille her stomach with water and went to bed.
Next day, Suseela pulled out a crepe silk saree from the bottom of her suitcase and wore it. She
invited Anasuya to go with her. They both went and stood in front of a movie company in Vadapalani.
It was a new movie company. The owner’s name was Surya Rao. His adoptive mother suddenly died
leaving him some 60,000 rupees. A fiction writer, Chukkasri, sweet-talked Surya Rao into moving to
Madras and opening a movie company. They rented a small house for one hundred rupees per
month, paid ten rupees and got a sign made “Sri Yassaar films”; ‘Sri’ stood for Chukkasri, and
‘Yassaar’ for S.R., Surya Rao’s initials.
Surya Rao and Chukkasri started advertising in the newspapers. The name of the movie they were
going to make was “Subbarayudu Shashti”. The advertisements caught the attention of the extra-
suppliers and the stars. Surya Rao was jubilant. He recalled the days when he had to beg his
grandma for a quarter to go to the movies which featured the very stars who were lining up at his
door now. He would never forget that he owed all this to Chukkasri. He was amazed at Chukkasri’s
talent.
Suseela heard about this new company through the spies of the movie industry and set out to meet
them touting her pipe. The new company was in the process of casting. Suseela and Anasuya were
hoping to earn a few rupees, with any luck that is.
Anasuya and Suseela went in. Suseela noticed that a third person was present in the room, besides
Subba Rao and Chukkasri. Suseela cringed uneasily. The third person was Murti, a third rate movie
critic, who makes or mars the careers of stars based on his whims. He could present a cheap trash
as an upright honest woman without a blemish, or, trash a high calibre star in a snap. Suseela
recalled the time when he promised her a role in a movie and took advantage of her without any
reward. Yet she was polite to him.
“Hello, Murti garu, long time,” Suseela said.
Murti was pleased with her timing. “Hello, Suseela devi garu , good morning,” Murti said, and turned
to Subba Rao, “Subba Rao garu, I forgot to mention. Her name is Suseela devi, a well-known movie
star.”
Subba Rao recalled all the movies he had seen and was wondering where, if at all, he had seen this
“well-known” movie star.
Murti wanted to make the best of the opportunity. “Suseela devi garu, this gentleman, Mr. Subba
Rao, is sworn to bring about a significant change in the movie industry and this gentleman,
Chukkasri, is the script writer for the movie they are going to make. He is a great writer, published
several stories that would fit on a post card in prominent movie magazines like Chitragupta and
Mohini. He also sends questions to the editors of all the magazines regularly on a monthly basis. His
full name is Chukkeswara Rao.”
Suseela was nervous. She came there for the same purpose as the others. However she couldn’t
help feeling sorry for Subba Rao and Chukkasri. She looked at the them once and she knew they
were cornered by an owl. Anasuya was impressed, felt even a little jealous, that Suseela had so
much clout with all these people in the industry. Her respect for Suseela rose to a new level.
They all sat down. Murti yelled to the server, “Hey, boy, bring five cups of coffee,” he ordered as if it
were his home.
While they were sipping coffee and chatting, the extra supplier, Sanga Rao, showed up suddenly
from nowhere. He looked at Suseela peevishly as he walked in. He did not appreciate the fact that
Suseela took the initiative without his express permission; that was not right per his rules. Sanga Rao
was the emperor Czar, short of a crown, in the world of extras. He would never forgive anybody who
would attempt to get a role without his consent.
Suseela’s spirits were sagging by the minute. She quickly finished the coffee, took leave of Subba
Rao and left along with Anasuya.
Murti knew why Suseela left in such a hurry. He burst out into a big laugh. Sanga Rao also laughed,
followed Suseela into the street and caught up with her.
“So, you decided to become a great star?” he said watching her like a hawk.
Suseela did not reply.
Sanga Rao ogled like a wolf. “You had better behave,” he said and walked away in big strides.
Anasuya was confused. Earlier Suseela was so confident and seemed to be in control. Now suddenly
she turned into a kitten. Why this sudden change? They walked a few yards and ran into the tailor
who made clothes for the stars at a movie studio.
The tailor saw them, “A new hussy, ha?” he said to Suseela and winked roguishly.
Thanks to the tailor Suseela was herself again. She coaxed Anasuya into going with him and
managed to squeeze a couple of rupees from the tailor in the process. She spent a quarter of a
rupee and bought a cup of tea. By the end of the day life was beautiful to both Anasuya and Suseela.
In the same lousy complex where Suseela and Anasuya were living a Malayalee nurse, Premi, and an
Anglo-Indian woman, Miss. Jeannie also rented rooms. Premi has a husband and children. Anasuya
was surprised that Premi was talking with Jeannie in English. Suseela explained that Premi has
learned English while working for an English family. “Just the same way we are learning Tamil here,”
she said.
Anasuya still couldn’t believe it. Learning Tamil was no big deal but English? She was not exactly a
qualified nurse. Her duties included janitorial services in addition to nursing. Premi was earning
twenty five rupees per month, yet, wore expensive clothes. She paid six rupees rent which leaves
only twenty four rupees for all other expenses? Where was the money coming from for all those
expensive saris? It was beyond her comprehension—how Premi could manage all that on her meager
income? She asked Suseela. Suseela laughed so loud it could have put a hole in the roof.
“You are so naïve, I am sure you are one of a kind. You think she is a saint, don’t you? She makes
money like the rest of us.”
“What about her husband? Would he let her?” Anasuya expressed her doubt.
“Why not? She has a job for the sake of appearances, a kind of cover. The only difference is she
would not make it as obvious as we do,” Suseela explained.
Anasuya could not understand what kind of a man would sleep with Premi. She looks like a skeleton.
Suseela has an explanation for that too. “She is a Malayalee,” and whispered something in her ear.
“THAT is the secret,” Suseela said with a grimace, “Does that mean we should too?”
“Oh, hell, no. We have to have some values, you know,” Suseela snarled.
Anasuya was perplexed. It didn’t make any sense at all. They all were prostitutes and that was the
truth. What values? What’s she talking about?
Jeannie cannot stand it if anybody calls her Jeannie under any circumstance. She insists on being
called Miss. Jeannie. If by any chance someone says, “Jeannie,” even by mistake, she jumps out of
her skin and start cursing not only that one person but the entire complex and that too in English.
She would say that Indians lack manners, are short on etiquette, and calls them ‘niggers’, ‘beggars’,
or other similar terminology. She firmly believed that she belonged to the great Anglo-Saxon race and
the blood running in her veins was the purest.
Jeannie’s grandmother was born to an English man and a Turkish woman. She married a Hindu
Christian. Their daughter, Jeannie’s mother, was married to a Tamil Nayar. So what? As far as
Jeannie was concerned, her maternal great grandfather was hundred percent English man. That was
reason enough for her to look down on Indians and India. She was convinced that she ended up in
this morbid country because of her bad luck and that some duke was waiting round the corner to fall
in love with her, marry her, and make a duchess of her. At present she has no relatives. Her old
mother died a couple of years ago. Jeannie did not go to school but heard about the land of her
forefathers and the English traditions from her mother. Her mother heard these things from her
mother. That was not all. Since she believed that her mother’s race was classier than her father’s she
has learned to respect her mother more. Her father was working as a conductor on the trams (a
mode of city transportation running on electricity in Madras). Eventually the trams were terminated
and so was her father. He died recently.
Jeannie has learned to make a living on her own early in life. It is common knowledge that the moral
values of the Anglo-Indians are of dubious distinction. In addition, when a person has no other family
things get worse. Usually, such persons settle down in low-paid jobs such as nursing, stenography, or
sales. Such jobs do not pay enough, not enough, for their nail polish and facial makeup. Therefore
they resort to prostitution necessarily.
Miss Jeannie’s lifestyle was not any different from others in the building. During the day she wears a
dirty skirt, nibbles on a piece of stale bread from a porcelain plate using her spoon and fork, the odds
and pieces from her mother’s time. She makes a thirty-minute chore of it and makes big noise so the
neighbors would know that she was using a fork and a spoon. Whenever she sees her neighbors
eating with hand she would not let go without commenting on the filthy habits of Indians.
She starts dressing up about five in the evening. She washes her face, hands, and her legs with the
cheap soap bought in China bazaar. Anasuya never saw Jeannie take a shower in the past one
month. Rest of Jeannie’s preparation to go out comprises of: combing her hair, wearing a net,
applying a half-inch thick layer of powder to her face, hands and legs, and wearing lipstick. She
wears the same red frock she has been wearing for the past 15 days, wears a cheap pearl chain in
her neck, and puts on a pair of tattered canvas boots. That is her make up to sell her body and make
a living. On better days, she might make about six annas. Sometimes, she may not get even that
much. On rare occasions, she could see a couple of rupees.
Jeannie is crazy about movies. She has a free pass for all the movies in all the theaters. After the
movie started she goes to the gatekeeper. Both of them would go into the bathroom. After ten
minutes or so, they’d come out and she takes a seat in the movie theater feeling like a royalty and
gets to watch the movie. She watches the young English men and women dance and their heroic
deeds; imagines herself to be that heroine, and as being rescued by the hero and so on. Usually the
gatekeepers at the movie theaters are her patrons. They even pay her one or two annas.
Jeannie saw skinny Premi sitting with a man in the upper class which cost a rupee and a half ticket.
How could she do that? Is she more beautiful than I? She convinced herself that Premi fooled those
naïve villagers who came for check ups, and returned to watching the movie. Suseela and Anasuya
were also watching the same movie sitting in the mid-range class, six anna tickets.
The movie started. Jeannie saw Premi taking ten rupees from the man with bushy moustache. The
gatekeeper came in and told her that if she stayed for the second show and spent sometime with his
friend, she would make no less than a half rupee (eight annas), he assured her. Jeannie did not see
which way Premi went. Anasuya and Suseela were disappointed that they did not get any business
and were about to leave. A cop showed up and struck a deal with them, three rupees for the night.
Some women become prostitutes after all other efforts failed, all other means were closed to them.
Some women become prostitutes out of arrogance. They all sell their bodies because they did not
have any skills to make a living. Any woman in general seem to pawn her body either to fight poverty
or because she was cheated or to avenge herself. The thoughts made Parvati recall the story of
Pankajavati.
Pankajavati has a husband and four children. One night, they got into a fight about something. It
started out as a minor bickering and soon turned into a storm. He slapped her. She was furious;
opened the doors and walked out, without thinking straight. It was midnight and raining lightly. She
went to a small tea stall and ordered a cup of tea. The server went in to bring tea. A gentleman a
frequent visitor at her home also came into the tea-stall. He was drunk but was in his senses though.
He sat next to Pankajavati and started chatting. Server brought tea.
“Not that tea. Here, try this,” he said, poured a peg from a horse brand bottle, and mixed with soda.
Pankajavati did not think twice; she chugged it in one gulp. Then she asked him, “Is it okay if I stay at
your place for the night?”
That’s what he was looking for too. “Of course,” he said without giving much thought to the
consequences. The alcohol in his blood wasn’t helping either.
She spent the rest of the night with him. She could not see that she was acting like that because she
was angry with her husband.
The next morning the entire town has come to know about it. There was nothing the poor husband
could say. She was the mother of his four children. She decided that it was his fault and kept quiet.
Parvati never stopped thinking about her goal in life. She even blamed herself for her failure. She
could not see what other options she had. She received a letter from Kavi garu, husband of her aunt’
s daughter. He was one of the foremost to kick when she was down on her knees. Now her status has
improved, he was all praise for her. The letter was a request to help him in getting his foot in in the
movie field. Parvati was not aware of the recent developments in his life nor his transformation. She
sat on the sofa lost in a reverie.
“Madam, somebody is at the door for you,” the maid announced.
A woman was standing behind her. That was her childhood friend, Annapurna.
Parvati jumped to her feet, ran to Annapurna, and embraced her. She couldn’t contain herself for all
the excitement she felt at the sight of her old friend.
“Annapurna, Where are you coming from? Are you married? Any children?” she poured milion
questions.
Annapurna broke into tears. Parvati was stunned.
“What’s the matter? Why tears? Come on. Sit down first. Tell me everything,” she talked to her gently
in an attempt to comfort her.
Life is same for the women who cherish moral values. They will have a husband, few children, a
home, and such. Every ill-fated woman has a different story to tell. There could be any number of
reasons for a woman’s life to go wrong. A woman with nothing special to brag about and no place to
go might end up selling her body to make a living, and then, who could blame her? Even if we dismiss
it as her karma to some extent, we still have to look to the world for the other part of the answer.
Annapurna told her story to Parvati.
“Parvati, I cried a lot after you ran away. After you left, my family found a nice bridegroom and
arranged my marriage. That was also the beginning of a series of misfortunes. Just ten days before
my wedding date my father’s sister died because of a snakebite. She and her husband had three
children and plenty of money. My family did not want to let go of all that wealth. They canceled the
earlier wedding plans and married me off to the widower, my uncle. He was 45 years old at the time,
old enough to be my father. I have a distinct memory of he carrying me around when I was little. My
only sweet memories of the times were the snacks they, my uncle and aunt, would bring us when they
came to visit us. I am sure you know him too. Isn’t it horrible to marry a man of my father’s age.
Besides I was very fond of my aunt. I was devastated that I would have to wear her sarees and tops;
her son, just four days older than I, would be addressing me as ‘mom’. In fact, my parents would have
married me to him if he were a couple of years older. I used to address him as bava. After this stupid
marriage he refused to call me pinni and so my uncle was suspicious of us.
Parvati, you can imagine what a miserable life that was for me. On the nuptial night they shoved me
into the room like a sacrificial lamb. Until then he used to call me ammadu (darling, little girl) and now I
am his wife! That was really tough and spelled trouble for me. He concluded that I was not receptive
to his advances simply because I was involved with his son. To be frank, I could not bring myself to
wear my aunt’s jewelry and fill her place; to me, that was irreverent. But then who cares? My own
parents did not see the quandary I was thrown into. The son noticed his father’s suspicions and
disappeared without a trace. I don’t know, not even to this day, what happened of him. My problems
took a turn for the worse. My uncle’s daughter would quote the story of Chitrangi and Sarangadhara
and say that her brother ran away because I was after him.
The old man used to beat me up all the time. I couldn’t take it anymore. I picked up the ten ounces of
gold and ten rupees that was all the wealth I possessed, walked four miles to the nearby railway
station, got on the train, and reached Vijayawada. I rented a small room in a small neighborhood. My
education being minimal, my job opportunities were severely limited, you know. All I know was to cook.
I went around and finally found work as a cook in somebody’s house.
Soon enough, I realized that my youth was my enemy and so quit that job. The gold I brought with me
was gone. Remember the man who got me the room earlier? He was aware that I belonged to higher
caste and that I would not eat meat. He seemed to be a good person in appearance at least. Back
home, nobody seemed to have cared about my running away; no sign that they ever made any
attempt to find me...
"I could not find work, not even as a cook again. Of the remaining two sarees, I sold one for six
annas. I bought four idlis and a cup of coffee with the money. I had not eaten for four days and my
stomach couldn’t keep it; I threw up. I was feeling dizzy. I managed to get back to my room somehow. I
was falling behind in paying the rent; I owed two months’ rent. The landlady threw my things on to the
street. I crashed on the sidewalk by the gutter. If I were a man, I would have slept on some patio. All I
have now was the brass tumbler to sell. I sold it to a potter next door for three annas. It got me
through that evening.
The next question was to find a place to sleep. I sat down in front of the same room I rented earlier.
The landlady came out and yelled at me, not that it made any difference. I didn’t budge. In the middle
of the night, I was so disgusted I wanted to kill myself. I didn’t have the strength in my legs even to get
up and walk up to the river Krishna.
It was then, he came, the man, who got the room for me in the first place. He suggested I go with him.
Probably, I would have second thoughts if circumstances were different. But now I am hardly in a
position to think of anything. I agreed and followed him to Madras.
He took me to a house in Madras. There were three more women in that house and they all have the
same stories to tell. He told me that the house belonged to one of his relatives. After a very long time,
I had a hot water bath, it felt so good. He opened the closet and gave me a glasgoe sari and a plain
top. I had a full meal with potato curry, lentil chutney, and onion soup. I slept on a clean spring bed
with a ceiling fan on. I woke up in the morning and was surprised to see my face; it was so beautiful.
In about four days, I got used to the comforts. I knew I was longing for snacks, twice a day, posh
meals, and cozy lifestyle.
Fifteen days passed by. One day the landlady came to me. She started chatting and during the
conversation dropped a line, “I can shower millions for you, if you like.” I didn’t understand her words.
“What do you mean you can shower millions for me,” I asked her. It took a while to see where she was
going with it.
“If you are rich, you are chaste. There is no such thing as good and bad,” she said. Frankly, I was
well aware that I was good for nothing. That was the beginning of my fall downhill.
“You too, Annapurna!” Parvati said. In that moment there was absolutely no difference between
Parvati’s tone and that of Julius Ceasar when he said, “Thou too Brute,” after he was stabbed by
Brutus.
“Yes, Parvati, I was, too. We are females, the weaker race; what else can we do? Anyways, that
house was a high-class brothel house. From outside no one could tell that prostitution goes on
inside. Usually, the high-class people come there. I lived like that for two years and earned close to
five thousand rupees. Even a wanton woman could and does fall in love at some point, you know. Her
love is in no way inferior to any other respectable woman. In fact, her love could be more sincere. I
fell in love with an artist and we lived together for a while. You might loathe me for saying this. I was
also in love with an attorney also at the same time. It got to a point I couldn’t live without seeing him
not even for a minute. The artist did not know about this relationship.
That did not continue for long though. What can I say? It was my karma, I suppose. I was caught by
the artist while I was in the attorney’s house. I walked into the living room casually one day only to find
that the artist was waiting there for the attorney. The artist understood what was going on, cursed
me, and left, enraged. The attorney felt he betrayed his friend and told me to leave. So I ended up on
the streets again for about four months now.
I kept my five thousand rupees I’ve saved in the bank but could not access without the artist’s
signature. I didn’t want to ask him. It was getting tough. To make the things worse, the landlord
Sahasranamam threw me out.
“Why?” Parvati asked.
“I wasn’t feeling well, running temperature. He wanted me to entertain four men regardless of my
health. He told me that the four hefty men were waiting for me, and, ‘no-show’ on my part would mean
loss of forty rupees for him at the rate of ten rupees per person. Sahasranamam was in no mood to
lose that kind of money. He was willing to send somebody else but those men phoned and asked for
me specifically.”
“Phone?” Parvati asked, surprised.
“Yes, phone. Sahasranamam has a phone in his house. So also those men. I had been there earlier.
They wanted me because I look like a family woman, innocent and fresh. They all were high-class
men you know—a writer, a doctor, a movie producer, and a landlord. All of them were equally pros.
That was why they all were hellbent on getting only me. Did you get the drift?”
“Go on, Annapurna, tell me everything. Please, don’t stop,” Parvati said.
“I hope you are not disgusted with me,” Annapurna said desperately.
“Of course not. You are telling me how horrible a woman’s life could be. You are narrating the living
conditions of half the female population of the entire world. You are showing the stark realities to
those who are happily singing, ‘woman’s life is dandy’. Annapurna, I wish I were a writer but I am not. I
am an actor. I really would like to show to the world all the maladies that are consuming women’s
lives. A man cannot appreciate the hardships a woman suffers. Only a woman could comprehend the
depth of such atrocities. A female could do better justice to the subject than a male writer.
Unfortunately, I am not a writer. Please, do not stop. I want to hear everything,” Parvati spoke in
anguish.
“Yes. The four men insisted that they wanted only me. Know why? All the four honorable men are
friends. They all have money, cars, and beautiful wives. Yet they want me once a month. Can you
guess why, Parvati?” Annapurna hid her face in the cup of her two palms and cried for a few minutes,
and then, continued.
“They have no shame. All the four sit there watching and cheering while one after another performs
sexual acts on me.”
Parvati turned pale. The words were too much for her to take. “Is that true?” she asked faintly.
“Yes. It is true, Parvati. You cannot imagine the abominable lives of prostitutes. You may not be a
writer. Still as long as you are willing to listen I can tell you the worst of our stories. Please, let me tell
you. That gives me some comfort at the least,” she said, and started weeping again.
“Don’t cry, Annapurna, tell me everything. Do not hold back anything, not even the tiniest detail.
Eliminating prostitution is one of my goals in life. I cannot accomplish my goal without learning its true
nature. Pantulu garu and I started an Asram with the same goal but could not get far. I know only
some of the stories but not all. Only you can fill me in on all forms of those wretched lives,” Parvati
said, passionately.
“Well, on that particular day, I was not feeling well and so I refused. As a result, I was thrown out by
Sahasranamam. The world changes only when the mentality of men changes. We cannot bring about
a change in the society unless we change the attitude of men. Until then no matter how many Asrams
are opened the result is the same. I know of a small organization, a vocational school, in Chengulput.
There is something we can do, maybe very little still that is something. The women there are taught
some skills and sent into the world only to be thrown back into the same situation by the way men
treat them. The men in the outside world would not let them live honestly.”
Annapurna took a sip of water and continued her narration.
“I got up to leave when Sahasranamam told me to but he insisted that I could leave only after paying
that forty rupees he would have earned if I had gone to those four men. He snatched away my
clothes. Where could I go? I didn’t have much choice in the matter. I pulled myself together and went
to those men and satisfied their desires. That caused my temperature to go further up, 104 or
something. Then there was another problem. There was a wealthy Chettiar who liked women when
they were running high temperature. He would pay one hundred rupees if such a woman was
supplied. Usually, we do not get sick and that was a disappointment to Sahasranamam. Now he saw
an opportunity to make more money, considered it a blessing, for himself and the Chettiar. That day,
the Chettiar ravished me like a raven.
Parvati, I am telling you, you cannot even begin to comprehend these sadists and their perversities.
There was another European customer. He would bring six pounds of ice, cool down our bodies with
that ice, and then, enjoy sex with us. Next day, that poor woman would be sure to get fever. Then, the
Chettiar would show up for his turn. The European was secretive about his acts though. There was a
contractor, who took pleasure in having sex with three women at the same time, and so, would bring
along an actor with him. I’m sorry, I cannot describe anymore. Let me tell you, the worst was yet to
come. A priest also used to visit us. He would bring the jewelry and costumes of the Goddess, and
makes a woman dress up like the Goddess in the temple, sitting with one leg tucked under and the
other let down, raising one hand in‘abhaya mudra’ and holding a flower with the other hand. He
would stare at the woman for a few minutes and then pounce upon her like a hungry lion. I cannot
understand his frame of mind at all.”
“That is not all. The problem of diseases is another story. Your heart would break even at the mere
thought of those diseases. Do you know men afflicted with tuberculosis or leprosy also would come to
us. The funny part is, the wife of a leper can seek and get a divorce in a snap. The same leper can
pay a few rupees and get a prostitute. Normally, no prostitute lives long, ten years at most. After ten
years, she may be alive but she’d be living with a disfigured face and on a sidewalk. Not one of them
could speak clearly; none of them would be in good health. Their faces would bear the marks of all
the pain and suffering in the world. Yet they all do want to live even when it meant living hell. Maybe
the world would not let them live in any other way. Parvati, I am one of those dreadful people.
Recently, I saw one of your movies and I recognized you, the famous actor, as my childhood friend.
Listen. I will cook for you. All I am asking is a little food and a roof over my head. I cannot live this
wretched life anymore,” Annapurna broke into heartbreaking sobs.
Parvati sighed. “Annapurna, you’ve at least realized that it’s a wretched life. There are lot of women
out there that will not even accept that it is a horrible life. I am not sure what is the cure for this
abominable disease? Please, do stay with me. I will be happy to have you here,” she said.
Dasaraj films was shooting a movie in Aswani studio. Parvati was playing the heroine. During the
break, she was reading a popular weekly magazine, Andhra Sobha. She saw an article written by a
famous female writer, Madhavidevi. Parvati pays special attention to Madhavidevi’s articles. While
she was reading the article, something occurred to her. She felt like she found a way to accomplish
her mission. She was so absorbed in the article she did not even hear the call to return to the set.
Kandhar, the music director, came to her and reminded her that it was time for her to return to the set.
He saw the magazine in her hand and asked her, “What is it? Seems like it’s gotten to you.”
“You should read this. We’ll talk about it later,” she said, hurrying toward the set.
After the shooting, Parvati came back.
“I read it,” Kandhar said.
“So, what do you think of it?”
“Well, it is written by Madhavidevi. No question it is written very well. I used to think that Madhavidevi
was a pseudonym of some male writer . Later, I happened to meet her. We even considered her while
we were looking for writers for this movie.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Well, you know. The movie producers do not pay writers like they do for actors. For Madhavidevi, it
would not be easy either to move with the entire family to Madras for the duration of the movie.
Probably, that is not the real reason. The producers hesitate to use writers who have no experience
at movie scripts.”
“Do you have her address?”
“Yes, I do. Wait, wow! Look who is coming. That is her, Madhavidevi!” Kandhar stood up ardently.
A woman, in her mid-twenties, walked in like the very incarnation of Saradadevi, the Goddess of
Learning. She was wearing a white saree, white top, jasmine flowers in her hair, a pearl necklace,
and ivory bracelets. By her side, Hareswara Rao, the studio owner, was walking. They both came
straight to Parvati and Kandhar.
“She..” Hareswara Rao turned to Madhavidevi, by way of introduction.
“I know, the most famous actress, Parvati devi,” Madhavidevi said.
He turned to Parvati, and said, “She …”
“I know, the most famous writer, Madhavidevi,” Parvati said.
They all noticed that the introductions were unnecessary and laughed.
“For me, knowing you is no big deal. The entire world has seen you on the screen. But, how could
you have known me?” Madhavidevi asked Parvati.
“I know you. In fact, I was just asking Kandhar for your address and here you are! I liked your article
in the current issue. You wrote as if you have seen it yourself. How did you know all those details?”
“I saw them. I visited a brothelhouse in Vijayawada, Rajamma’s, pretending to be a buyer for her
property. Rest of it, I guessed.”
“You went to Rajamma’s house? Did you see a woman named Sita?”
“Yes. How do you know Sita? Poor thing, died. She left her baby at my door and killed herself. I put
the baby in an orphanage. They did not take good care of him; he developed a liver problem. That is
the reason I am here. I brought the boy to have him checked here in Madras. I need Hareswara Rao’s
recommendation to admit him in the hospital. I have a son at home about the same age,”
Madhavidevi heaved a sigh.
“Sita died? Poor thing. Probably the child is better off under your care…”
All the others were listening to them with curiosity. Suddenly, there was some clamor among the
extras. The women under the tree went into a flutter. One of them fainted. Somebody sprinkled some
cold water on her face and another brought coffee and fed her. That woman was Anasuya. She has
not eaten for over four days.
The production manager phoned the doctor. The doctor came, checked her, and gave the worst
possible news. He said that she was suffering from a venereal disease, and tuberculosis. The truth is
if he had checked the others, probably he would have found that half of the women there were
suffering from at least one of those diseases.
Madhavidevi and Parvati hit it off right away. Parvati invited Madhavidevi to her place the following
day. Madhavidevi was able to admit Sita’s baby in a hospital, thanks to Hareswara Rao.
Next day, Madhavidevi came to Parvati’s home in her car and picked her up. At the Gemini theater,
the car was out of gasoline. They went to a gas station, and while filling the gas tank, they saw two
cops escort an Anglo-Indian woman. That was Jeannie. She did not do anything wrong. She was
starving for over four days. She went into a public latrine with a rickshaw driver. The government
would not do a damn thing about her starvation but now they were ready to throw her in jail because
she was trying to earn a little money the only way she could. Probably that was okay too. She would
get something to eat at the jail at the least. Jeannie was cursing them in English, and Madhavidevi
could understand her story, from her ranting. Jeannie was sobbing in between her fiery expletives.
She said that the Indians were sadly lacking in manners, commonsense, and etiquette. Jeannie’s face
was looking beat up; she felt her legs so light she could hardly stay on the ground. “You slut, shut
up,” said one of the cops, beating her with his baton. She fell on the ground but did not stop her
tirade.
The scene shook Madhavidevi and touched the inmost corners of her heart. They finished filling the
gas tank and left.
Sometimes, an ordinary incident could spark a good deed or pave the way for a great movement.
The arrest of the ill-fated woman, Jeannie, created havoc in the heart of Madhavidevi.
Parvati and Madhavidevi sat in the sofa facing each other. Annapurna brought coffee for both of
them.
“Come, sit down. She is Madhavidevi,” Parvati said to Annapurna, extending a hearty invitation.
Annapurna also sat down with a cup of coffee and said, “Madhavidevi garu, I am one of your fans.
You depict the life as it is, that is your forte.”
“You are saying as if it is a good point. Many people abhor that quality in me. My brother especially
tells me that I am not writing like a woman. He says such writing is unbecoming a family woman.”
“Those who cannot write like that probably are scared of those who could. They discourage others
who are capable of depicting life as it is.”
“I can’t say that my brother belongs in that category. In fact, he has been supportive of my creating
efforts from the very beginning. He is also a writer. He says, he transferred his creative skills to me
and thus did the literature a great service.”
“Are you saying that you are the great sculpture created by your brother?” Parvati commented, with a
little laugh.
“You are talking as if you are delivering a dialogue on the set, Parvati garu. My brother put me at the
top of the list of all the worthless people in the entire world. He might even be thinking that he was
embarrassed to claim me as his sister. I am not sure though. He is ruffled that I am not thinking like a
woman, nor writing like a woman.”
“Madhavidevi garu, I am begging for a favor from you. Will you please consider it?” Parvati asked her.
“It seems the movies and Sarat novels have gotten to you . I am a poor writer. All I have is my pen.
Yet, I am struggling for two square meals a day. If you are asking something that is within my means I
will be happy to do it.”
“It is within your means. I am asking for the use of your pen, Madhavidevi garu. I can’t tell you how
much I regret every minute of my life that I am not a writer.”
“Don’t you worry about it. I am not all that excited for being one. After all, we do have to take care of
our families too. In our country, even Saraswatidevi cannot live on the earnings from creative writing if
you ask me. There is absolutely no reason for you to regret that you are not a writer.”
“I am serious. I am asking you in all earnestness. Do you remember the incident at the gas station?
What do you think of that?”
As soon as she heard those words, a dark shade spread over Madhavidevi’s face.
“What is there to think? We see millions of such incidents every day, every minute.”
“You see them and keep quiet? If you and I and the world, if we all look away and ignore it, what is
the way out for those poor women?”
“I understand your concern, but you know, Fruits from a tree will not fall for chanting mantras. There
is a book on prostitution in Russian language, translated into almost all the languages of the world. At
the time of its original publication the emperor Czar banned it. The book came into light after a few
years but there is no indication that the prostitution has decreased. In the past, government used to
issue green ticket to prostitutes. That custom is gone but there is no significant change in the lives of
women. As long as the public believes that money showers like rain in exchange for woman’s
chastity,” Madhavidevi said.
“That is not right. You have to put our lives in front of the world and show them in all its depravity.
Only you can comprehend how heinous our lives have become, because you are also a woman. One
half of the female population of the world are living rotten lives. You have a responsibility at the least
to let them beware that they are living rotten lives,” Annapurna spoke, passionately.
“Did you say ‘our lives’? Do you mean..”
“Yes. I was one of them. I can give you just for the asking all the gory details, the monstrous ways we
are forced to live. Even if one reader turns her life around because of your writing I would say it’s
worth your time. Just tell me you will write,” Annapurna said.
“Madhavidevi garu, probably you have heard about the Asram, Pantulu garu and I started, and also,
that it turned out to be a fiasco. Uncle Pantulu garu wrote to me that the change should come in the
hearts of individuals. I also have come to the same conclusion. One movie can bring about the kind
of change that a hundred thousand Asrams and a million reformation schools cannot accomplish.
The censor board will not permit us to make a movie on this subject but a book can do the same job.
A writer can write a book. We know the writers are unacknowledged despots . You have the freedom
to present boldly the stark reality of the lives of the prostitutes. I will take care of the publishing costs
and pay you five thousand rupees towards compensation,” Parvati said, passionately.
“This issue has been pestering me too. I was scared earlier to write about these things because I was
a woman. Now, I have your support I will get on to it right away. However, you do have to take care of
the production costs. Like you said even if one person changes her way of life because of the book,
that is plenty of reward. I agree with you that the change should come in the hearts of individuals,
and, a book can accomplish that; secondly, a movie can do that. This problem exists all over the
world. The difference is only in nomenclature— whatever you call a woman—Sita, Suseela, Premi, or
Jeannie, the problem remains the same. Whatever the location—Rajamma’s house, Sahasranamam’s
building, or someone else’s mansion—the problem is the same; and all the men act the same,
whatever their occupation is—a rickshaw driver, a leper, a family man, a police officer, a chettiar—all
of them are the same, even the writer is a male. They all want a woman. They all circumambulate
around this wicked mountain. If any one of them stopped for a second and looked at my book, that is
enough for me. I would take it as a success. I would be proud that I was able to stop this unfortunate
misery for a second. I am not going to expect anything more than that.
“I am leaving for Vijayawada tonight. I know that this monster is hanging over the town of Vijayawada
like a huge tornado. I will start writing tomorrow. Jeannie’s cursing is still fresh in my mind. What an
outpour of a story. She mouthed off so many names—skeletal Premi, Suseela, villager Anasuya, and
so on. Who are all these people? They all are no other than the cancerous lumps on the body we call
India. We have now the modern Anasuya and Arundhati in place of the great women of mythology,
Anasuya and Arundhati. I cannot think of anything more embarrassing. I will finish the book within a
month. Parvati garu, good bye for now,” Madhavidevi spoke with the same fervor as the other two
and got up.
Parvati and Annapurna were stunned at her zeal and eloquence. “That is her secret, that is the
reason she is a remarkable writer,” Annapurna commented.
The weekly magazine, Andhra Sobha published the serial novel, “gali padagalu- neeti budagalu”
(The Kites and Water bubbles) and the novel created a sensation in the country. Our Telugu folks
who usually forget everything the next minute are paying unusual attention to this particular novel.
Many respectable gentlemen would walk up to the doors of prostitutes, think of the novel and stop at
the door for a second. Writer Madhavidevi expected only that much response. Even those prostitutes
who are a little educated are reading the novel and reflecting on their lives and drawing a deep sigh.
Within the first year the book went into two reprints. In a way, the book brought results higher than
Madhavidevi’s expectations. Thanks to the novel, the policemen are paying more attention to their
duty. Many brothel houses are shut down. Now, we don’t see women standing under trees on the way
to the railway station. We can assume that the cancerous sores on the body of Vijayawada have
been cleaned and dressed but the sore underneath is still there. As long as the change does not
take place in the hearts of the humans this evil continues to exist.
Currently you can see this book in everybody’s hand. The name of the book is “gaali padagalu- neeti
budagalu”. … It is true. Their lives are also like kites and water bubbles!!
(End)
(The novel, “gaali padagalu-neeti budagalu,” was originally published in 1953 and went into several
reprints.)