Sudha Murty - Three Thousand Stitches

W e set up the Infosys Foundation in 1996. Unfortunately, I knew precious little of how things worked in a non-profit organization. I knew more about software, management, programming and tackling software bugs. Examinations, mark sheets and deadlines occupied most of my days. The concept behind the foundation was that it must make a difference to the common manbahujan hitaya, bahujan sukhayait must provide compassionate aid regardless of caste, creed, language or religion.

As we pondered over the issues before usmalnutrition, education, rural development, self-sufficiency, access to medicine, cultural activities and the revival of the arts, among othersthere was one issue that occupied my uppermost thoughtsthe devadasi tradition that was pervasive throughout India.

The word devadasi means servant of the Lord. Traditionally, devadasis were musicians and dancers who practised their craft in temples to please the gods. They had a high status in society. We can see the evidence of it in the caves of Badami, as well as in stories like that of the devadasi Vinapodi, who was very dear to the ruling king of the Chalukya dynasty between the sixth and seventh century in northern Karnataka. The king donated enormous sums of money to temples. However, as time went by, the temples were destroyed and the tradition of the devadasis fell into the wrong hands. Young girls were initially dedicated to the worship and service of a deity or a temple in good faith, but eventually, the word devadasi became synonymous with sex worker. Some were born into the life, while others were sacrificed to the temples by their parents due to various reasons, or simply because they caught a hair infection like the ringworm of the scalp, assumed to be indicative that the girl was destined to be a devadasi.

As I thought about their plight, I recalled my visit to the Yellamma Gudda (or Renuka temple) in the Belgaum district of Karnataka years ago. I remembered their green saris and bangles, the smears of yellow bhandara (a coarse turmeric powder) and their thick, long hair as they entered the temple with goddess masks, coconuts, neem leaves and a kalash (a metal pot). Why cant I tackle this problem? I wondered. I didnt realize then that I was choosing one of the most difficult tasks for our very first project.

With innocence and bubbling enthusiasm, I chose a place in northern Karnataka where the practice was rampant and prostitution was carried on in the name of religion. My plan was to talk to the devadasis and write down their concerns to help me understand their predicament, followed by organizing a few discussions targeted towards solving their problems within a few months.

On my first day in the district, I armed myself with a notebook and pen and set out. I dressed simply, with no jewellery or bindi. I wore a pair of jeans, T-shirt and a cap. After some time, I found a group of devadasis sitting below a tree near a temple. They were chatting and removing lice from each others hair.

Without thinking, I went up to them, interrupting their conversation. Namaskaram, Amma. Ive come here to help you. Tell me your problems and Ill write them down.

They must have been discussing something important because the women gave me a dirty look. They lobbed questions at me with increasing ferocity.

Who are you? Did we invite you here?

Have you come to write about us? In that case, we dont want to talk to you.

Are you an officer? Or a minister? If we tell you our problems, how will you solve them?

Go away. Go back to where you came from.

I did not move. In fact, I persisted. I want to help you. Please listen to me. Are you aware that there is a dangerous illness called AIDS that you could be exposed to? There is no cure for...