Initiating debate

Guhya", an award winning documentary film, challenges most contemporary views on sexuality, gender and exploitation. C. K. MEENA writes of the film's focus on the link between sexuality and spirituality and its ability to question the roles played by caste, religion and social custom in relation to human progress.

THREE sari-clad women are sitting in a maize field in a village in north Karnataka. Their bodies are swaying, touching one another's whenever a burst of helpless laughter comes gurgling out of their throats. They're talking about sexual intercourse.

These women are devadasis. Aren't they those women whose bodies belong to many men? Women who are helpless victims of poverty and ignorance, forced to lead a life of shame? Who are exploited in the name of religion? What business have they to feel joyous or exuberant?

This is a scene from Kirtana Kumar's documentary film "Guhya", which recently won first place in the New Delhi Video Forum organised by the National Institute of Social Communications Research and Training. The jury commented on the film's "extraordinary treatment" of female sexuality, a subject that is "often relegated to the area of the forbidden". Kirtana, who was awarded a MacArthur Fellowship in 1997, travelled in rural north Karnataka, Kerala, Assam and Meghalaya, documenting symbols and rituals specific to Mother Goddess worship.

The 55-minute film, shot by her husband Konarak Reddy who also composed the music, unsettles most viewers since it challenges prevailing views on gender, sexuality, freedom and exploitation. It also moves us to reflect on the dazzling array of regional traditions in India and the on-going attempts to subsume them in one single, grand "Hindu" tradition.

The efforts we see today to create a pan-Indian culture have been going on since Independence and are a throwback to the colonial era. The "licentious" god Krishna, in particular, was scorned by the British and it was not long before their puritanical spirit seeped into the minds of the Indian elite. Krishna, the god of erotic, mystical love had to be "purified" by reducing him to either the child or the hero.

Similarly, the colonial rulers found our folk religions and cults barbaric and inhuman and, two centuries later, we hear exactly the same sentiments expressed by modern Indians. "The urban drive to eradicate superstition and to render Hinduism respectable on all levels of society is penetrating rural areas and interferes with these folk traditions." (From the Introduction to Representing Hinduism, edited by Vasudha Dalmia and Heinrich Von Stietencron, Sage Publications, 1995.)

By focussing on the Mother Goddess, "Guhya" reminds us that Hindu worship is not confined to mantras, arati, prostration, tinkling bells and sandal paste, but turmeric, meat, liquor, drumming, dancing, copulation, possession, self-mortification, and ritual abuse. Modern Hindus would call folk religion an aberration, says G. D. Sontheimer (in his paper included in Representing Hinduism), but the traditional brahmin's approach was to hierarchise it and assign it a rank. "Formerly, religious tradition could not and would not abolish folk religion."

The Mother Goddess of the indigenous folk cultures, in the form of Shakti, hark back to a pre-Vedic tradition. They are highly localised deities with region-specific names and have no male consort. They play a major part in tribal and lower caste rituals and worship.

"Guhya" begins with the announcement: "Guhya is the name of the goddess in an aroused form sitting deep in a cave." The name is apt, for it symbolises one of the film's main preoccupations: the link between sexuality and spirituality. Fertility is only one of the aspects of sexuality that Mother Goddess worship revolves around - for example, in the various Bhagavati (possessor of the bhaga or vulva) temples in Kerala and the Yoni temple at Kamakhya, Assam, the menstruating goddess is seen as auspicious.

There are the twin traditions of Angabhoga and Rangabhoga - serving the god through the pleasures of the body such as bathing, perfuming and sexual intercourse and through the arts such as a dance and music. Here one can see a connection to the Devadasi tradition.

The ancient custom of dedicating girls to temples was prevalent across the globe. There were women dedicated to the temples of the Great Mother Goddess in Babylon, Syria, Greece and Rome. Evidence has been found of the Mother Goddess cult, in West Africa, Central America, Egypt, Arabia, Japan and Borneo, observes Jogan Shankar in his Devadasi Cult: a Sociological Analysis (1990). Shankar estimates that the custom of dedicating girls became common in India probably in the 6th Century A.D. and has been practised ever since, mainly in southern, central and eastern India. Incidentally, he calls the system "sacred prostitution" and differentiates it from the "secular prostitution" carried on by sex-workers.

Perhaps one can use his book to illustrate how a late 20th Century sociological treatise can so remarkably resemble books written by missionaries in the early 19th Century. The same prejudices and superior tone colours his language. "Scheduled caste members suffer due to ethological susceptibility," goes one of Shankar's many mystifying statements.

He adds: "They are superstitious and ignorant." More than once he talks about devadasis having turned into "cheap prostitutes". He sounds distinctly unhappy that there is no stigma attached to their behaviour, and that they are respected in their community. "The very unchaste, inferior, derogative (sic) nature of their profession attains respectability as they are invited to be present during auspicious functions."

Here is W. Ward, Baptist missionary, writing about the devadasis of the Jagannath temple in Puri in 1815: "A number of females of infamous character are employed to dance and sing before the God." Around the same time, missionary Abbe Dubois talks of "sacred temples converted into mere brothels" and dancing girls whose "attitudes are lascivious and ... gestures indecorous".

Kirtana's triumph lies in her non-judgmental approach that helped build a high level of trust among all her subjects. Whether they were devadasis in Saundatti, sex-workers in Thrissur, or bhairavis (female tantriks) in Kamakhya, she respected their beliefs and articulations. One cannot imagine the devadasi women, for instance, baring their hearts to government officials, or to activists and social workers who have been fighting to "eradicate this heinous practice" in Karnataka for the last two decades.

Eradication and rehabilitation have been the guiding principles behind government programmes meant for devadasis in Karnataka. The Government "rescued"them and admitted them into State homes after the Karnataka Devadasi (Prohibition of Dedication) Act 1982 was passed. The women were taught embroidery, knitting and tailoring. They also imbibed "moral education". They were offered an incentive of Rs. 3,000 to get married. Special residential schools were set up for their children so that they would not adopt their mothers' bad habits. Eradication, though, remains a distant goal.

"It has been a very conscious decision to avoid the representation of any of the women in the film as victims," says Kirtana. "Devadasi women have for a long time been seen as only victims. We have not engaged with the varied aspects of their lives because of the tacit and politically correct understanding that any sort of approval or even mere acknowledgement will be misconstrued as validation of the devadasi system."

The subject can be viewed from an entirely new perspective when one focusses on the link between sexually affirming feminine rituals and the status of women.

"Guhya" reveals that the social status of devadasi women is higher than that of other women of their community - however, those who have migrated to urban brothels are not as respected as those who have remained in the village. Devadasis have a right to their ancestral property.

In the film, they proudly contrast themselves with married women, pointing out that the latter often suffer the husband's abuse when he is alive and society's abuse after he dies. "But for a devadasi, no one will ever call her randi-mundi."

The film takes the women's spiritual beliefs seriously and does not dismiss them as blind superstitions thrust into their heads by upper caste men, with vested interests. Goddess Yellamma has lakhs of devotees of whom only a minority are devadasis, or jogappas and jogammas (men and women who have dedicated their lives to a deity and therefore do not marry). At Saundatti, the epicentre of Yellamma worship, the various seasonal fairs or jatras that take place on full moon days between August and February are attended by approximately 15 lakh men, women and children from Karnataka, Andhra Pradesh and Maharashtra. Bettela seve or nude worship is common. Despite the government ban, hundreds of girls are dedicated to Yellamma in secret every year.

When is legal action against a social custom justified? How often do agents of social change listen to the views of those whom they intend to reform?

In the colonial era, British officials were stumped by the bewildering variety of our social practices and, by and large, preferred not to tamper with them. There was selective interference, however. Samita Sen, in her essay "Offences against marraige" (A Question of Silence? Edited by Mary E. John and Janaki Nair, 1998) shows how lower caste practices, especially those relating to cohabitation, were brought under the purview of colonial law. "British habits, judicial temper and Indian elite convictions converged to condemn and outlaw all female polygamous practices." A whole range of cohabitation arrangements among the lower castes were declared as legally invalid; they were seen as aberrations since they deviated from high caste practices and textual prescriptions. The blanket application of brahminical norms divested lower caste women of their customary rights and freedom in marriage, says Sen.

There is no lack of evidence to demonstrate how dalits and lower caste women enjoy a greater degree of freedom than their upper caste sisters who are bound by traditional patriarchal rules.

In a comparative study of groups of Bhangi, Vankar and Koli Patel women in Gujarat (The Silken Swing, edited by Fernando Franco, Jyotsna Macwan and Suguna Ramanathan, 2000), it was found that Bhangi women have less need to create spaces since they enjoy more equality than women of other castes. One of the reasons for their freedom is, ironically, their poverty. "The oppressiveness of poverty and caste creates a situation where gender inequality within the community becomes, in fact, almost non-existent."

The paradox is that when a lower caste group achieves better economic conditions, it strives to improve its social status through Sanskritisation, which in turn places curbs on women's free movement and economic independence. "The non-Brahminical cultural core offers women more autonomy than among the 'higher' castes but assimilation of 'upper' caste ritual practices creates tension in the women. The women assert themselves despite adoption of ritual precisely because they draw sustenance from the original non-ritualised core."

In the light of these observations, how are we to view "Guhya"? The film triggers several uncomfortable questions. It is clear that social customs, modes of worship, and norms of chastity and "correct" behaviours vary widely among different communities in India. Is there no place at all for reform, or what might be called human progress? The biggest challenge lies in finding the middle ground between reformism and revivalism, to neither romanticise every ancient tradition nor attempt to "cleanse" our culture of its "bad parts".

The breakdown of the devadasi tradition has no doubt led to the degeneration of the devadasis' social and economic status. It is no secret that many have migrated to city brothels. Sex-workers in India have started forming unions in the hope of improving their quality of life. Well-meaning groups and individuals who are eager to extend their help to these women are unfortunately unable to shed their baggage of prejudices and preconceived notions.

Kirtana describes her interactions thus: "Anyone who has spent time with either devadasi women or sex-workers will admit that there is a sense of something inexplicable - call it autonomy - I don't have the right words - but they have a quality that is to me desirable in all human beings. It is a directness, which comes from being beyond danger. It is to be experienced, not described."

Before one intervenes in the lives of devadasis, therefore, one must seek to discover what they truly feel, desire, believe. And yes, one must listen to their spiritual experiences with an open mind.

In the film, a jogappa dressed in a woman's attire (as many of them are) talks of the goddess' power to change human beings at will. An old and greatly respected devadasi, Basamma Ningenegowder, describes how the goddess appeared to her for a brief moment and transformed her life. "She gave me strength," says Basamma, her face tilted upwards and filled with wonder. "They don't understand her maya. She changes everything. She changes their very form. Nobody knows why."

"Guhya" is provocative. It carries no message - rather, it initiates debate. "I don't have any answers," says Kirtana. "All I wanted to do through the film was to widen the discourse on sexuality."

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