Skip to main content

A little place called Malabad...

There's a little school near Athani, Belgaum district (North Karnataka) which epitomises the best and the worst of the 'rest of India' -- an India we city-dwellers would not care to know for it's an India ignored by even the politicians and the cable television mafia.

The best of that India lives in the Malabad Vimochana Residential School for the children of Devadasis and 'normal' children. This school is set in a couple of acres and is 20 kms from Athani town. Athani is a filthy, pig-infested place, where it is best to always insist on boiling water (rather than boiled water). But the Malabad school gives you the impression of an untouched place, for these children have literally no contact with the polluting influences of our city life.

The school, which has 400-odd students, is one of the very few in India which caters to the Devadasi community and it runs solely on donations. There are a couple of computers here -- just so that the children learn how to identify the keyboard from the monitor, otherwise, their only means of recreation is to sing (Raj Kumar songs are a great favourite), play catch or hide-and-seek or try and pick sugar cane from the many tractors that dot the approach roads to Malabad. Belgaum is sugar cane country, working in the sugar factories is one of the few opportunities of employment for people here. But that's another story.

At the school, every visitor is a cause for immense excitement -- the Devadasi girls and boys here are so poor that few have the money to travel to Belgaum city (140 kms away), let alone Bangalore (600 kms away). And since the childrens' lives revolve around their classes, every female visitor is naturally 'Teacher Madam' and every male is addressed as 'Sir'. In fact, the first question Mahananda and Savithri, two class-10 students, asked me was: "Are you here for your MSW?" (Many
Masters in Social Work students visit the school every year to research the Devadasi cult).

Just like those MSW students, I too went there with an agenda -- to see how and why the Devadasi cult has survived in this day and age. But the childrens' simple joy, shamed me. Their innocence glows in their faces and yes, they are immensely brave. They come from housewholds dominated by women. Their mothers are farm labourers by day and many of these women are also 'dasis' to upper caste Patils and Lingayats (the dominent castes in North Karnataka), by night.

Yet, these children are symbols of change -- they are in Malabad because their mothers have courageously broken with tradition to get them educated. But will they be able to truly break free? If I go back next year, will Mahananda and Savithri still be there or will they have been married off? I really don't know and I'm scared to find out.





Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Wasteland

Something happened over the past two days. Our next door neighbours, or rather one particular family (like all metrizens in this cramped city, we live within literally, touching distance of the others in our neighbourhood), have decided to demolish their home. Fine, so what, you ask. They see how valuable land now is. Who can blame them? But along with their home, they have also decided to kill off the two trees -- a mango tree and a coconut tree -- in their compound. I used to look at those trees from my kitchen window. The mango tree, in particular, was a welcome sight. Bunches of ripe green fruit used to hang heavily from it. Looking at it, I'd think of my home in Kerala -- of the time when I was a little girl in a white petticoat helping my father pluck mangoes as they slowly changed from parrot green to a golden reddish-yellow-orange shade. That was our annual summer ritual, you see. My father plucked mangoes using a long stick with a hook or a 'kokka' (in my collo...

A confession

So you voted? Wow. Did you click a selfie with your inked finger prominent? Wonderful. Well, as for me, I have a secret that's been giving me heartburn. I didn't vote. I didn't get my voter ID on time, you see. So I have not been on Facebook with my voting selfie. And each time someone puts up a post saying "If you don't vote, you don't have the moral right to talk about corruption or lazy corporators or crib about how your city/state/the country is run", my heart sinks just a little more. Because truly, I don't think I am a bad person. I do not believe I no longer have any moral authority to call myself a 'citizen; of this country. At the most, I am guilty of being lazy--because I did not get my voter ID on time. On the contrary, I think I am an involved citizen. I religiously segregate my waste, separating dry from wet--and then I deliver the bags to the dry waste collection centre. When I see a creature in distress--street dog/animal/b...

Belly Tales

I always had a belly. In the beginning, it was rather shapely. Curvy, but not outwordly so. Then lil man came along. Suddenly, my belly became The living, growing symbol Of another tiny, living, breathing being. My body became nurturer and nurse. My belly became both nest and nuzzling point. Baby grew out of me, literally. And my belly became an afterthought. You see, my body didn't snap back into shape. My belly stayed on. So terms like 'baby belly' were thrown at me. But guess what, a baby did grow in this belly. And yes, my belly will never Go back to what it used to be. It is wobbly, it's scarred. It has stretchmarks. It symbolises my strength.