An Educated Woman In Prostitution Read online

  An Educated Woman

  in Prostitution

  A Memoir of Lust, Exploitation, Deceit

  (Calcutta, 1929)

  MANADA DEVI

  Translated from the Bengali by Arunava Sinha

  Chapter the First

  In Childhood

  I WAS BORN ON THE 18th of Ashadh in the year 1307 (1900 on the Gregorian calendar). My father was a Brahmin man from a respectable family, and I was his first child. I am unable to disclose his name and family background, for many of his offspring, close relatives and other members of the extended family are alive. Their social standing is not insignificant, and this memoir might come into their possession. I have no desire to disconcert them.

  My grandfather was a householder of considerable means, with four town houses in Calcutta and a house with a large garden in the suburbs. When of advancing years, he retired from the service of His Majesty’s Government. My father was a lawyer at the Calcutta High Court, where his practice became successful rapidly, even requiring him to travel from time to time.

  He had married when studying for his law degree, when my grandfather was still alive. My mother’s family resided in Calcutta too; they were not particularly wealthy, but my grandfather was eager to have my mother as his daughter-in-law because of her high birth and exquisite beauty. He died two years after my birth—it is only in my memory now that the pleasure of being held in his arms remains.

  I was not neglected because I was a girl. Some of my father’s friends would say, ‘A daughter as the first child is a harbinger of fortune.’ Although they said it in jest, there appeared to be some truth in it; my father had established his legal practice a few months before my birth, and it flourished by the day. It wasn’t long before he had purchased a small zamindari with an annual income of 10,000 rupees at an auction.

  I was sickly during my childhood, making my mother perpetually anxious. My grandfather spent unstintingly on my health; I have been told he was gazing at me on his deathbed, even at the very moment when he died. Today I feel this saintly man passed on his last breath to me, enabling me to survive every time I have been on the brink of death myself.

  When I was three years old, I was afflicted by a complicated fever that led all the well-known doctors of the city, allopathic and ayurvedic, to give up on me. All my sense organs had ceased functioning. But the great physician, the late Dwarakanath Sen, proved especially adept at treating me.

  My mother prayed to the god Shiva daily. One day, overcome by distress, she fell unconscious on the floor of her prayer-room. When she regained consciousness, she said, ‘Khukumoni will recover, there is nothing to worry about anymore.’ I do not know whether she received a reassurance from the god she cherished in her heart, but it was true that thereafter I began to heal without the intervention of medicines. I regained my health once again in the space of four months.

  There was one specific reaction to her fervour, however; my body began to wax like the moon in a cloudless sky. Family and neighbours alike expressed their surprise as my form filled out, my face glowed, my hair grew thicker and longer, and my demeanour became more joyful. In the past I was quiet and restrained; but after my illness I turned energetic. I would ask my mother for money to buy biscuits and lozenges and run to the stationery shop at the corner, or I would run about on our wide terrace to catch drifting kites—I had no fear of falling. Sometimes I would accompany our household maids to their homes, my mischiefs would exasperate the servants. I was prone to entering my father’s drawing room and creating a commotion. With no other children at home, I was the only one whose shouts and laughter would echo across the entire house. But I was embarrassed when my father recounted these incidents from my childhood.

  Taking a bath was one of my greatest pleasures. At my mother’s request, my father had had a large tank constructed for me in the courtyard, with a beautiful fountain spouting water in the middle. I had learnt how to swim at the age of six or seven; before going in for a bath I would fetch all the children of my age in the neighbourhood. We would play for hours in the water, shouting and laughing with joy. My mother’s indulgence kept my father from scolding me.

  There was one more habit I had developed—of going out for a ride in the motor car every afternoon. When my father could not accompany me, my mother did. A cousin of mine from my mother’s side—his name was Nandalal, I called him Nanda-dada—used to live at our house so that he could study in a nearby school. Sometimes I would take a walk with him. The sight of the beautifully decorated shops on either side of the road, the trams, the chains of electric lights, the crowds of passers-by, all gave me unsurpassed joy. Even as a young girl I was a frequent visitor to the Alipore Zoo, the museum at Chowringhee, the Howrah Bridge, the gardens of Pareshnath, and the temple at Kalighat.

  I was more inclined towards having birds at home than playing with dolls. My father would get me all manner of beautiful birds; among them were pigeons, mynahs, parrots, cockatoos, nightingales and magpies. I was neither fond of dogs or cats, nor attracted to flowers. As I grew older, however, my fascination with birds lessened.

  My mother died while giving birth to a stillborn second child. I was ten years old, and the year was 1910. I was aware of what death meant; no one could delude me with falsehoods or console me. I threw myself on the floor, crying uncontrollably. My father picked me up in his arms, but I thrashed about like a lamb being taken to the slaughter and climbed down. The neighbours bedecked by mother’s dead body with flowers and took her away; I ran after them. I recall stumbling and falling face down on the pavement after a short distance. Looking up, I discovered the bearers of the body receding in the distance; all that remained in my vision were the soles of my mother’s feet, the edges lined with red altaa, peeping out at the bottom of the cot on which she had been laid.

  My tears know no bounds today as I write of my tragic life. All the tears that I have shed all these years have, it seems to me, gathered at my mother’s feet to moisten the dried lines of red on them and make them fresh again.

  My father had wept copiously at my mother’s demise, refusing to eat for three days before giving in to his friends’ collective requests. A giant bromide enlargement of my mother’s photograph in sepia tones used to hang on my father’s walls; he had given it to me as a gift on my seventh birthday. He had spent seven hundred and fifty rupees on having it made in England. He would put a garland of fresh flowers on it every day now, after my mother’s death.

  I had joined Bethune School while my mother was still alive: I was a student in the sixth class when she died. A private tutor used to teach Nanda-dada and me at home. But my father withdrew me from school after my mother’s death, and appointed a reputed teacher to be in charge of my education. Perhaps he had made these arrangements so as to keep me near him in an effort to mitigate his own suffering. In any event, this change did no harm to my education.

  Six months passed. The swadeshi movement in Bengal was followed immediately afterwards by a spate of bomb attacks by revolutionaries. Exile for the leaders, gaol for the young men, arrests for the revolutionaries, death sentences for those caught with bombs—all of these created a furore. There were meetings and gatherings everywhere, gymnasiums were set up to train the youth in stick-to-stick combat. My father was involved with the revolutionaries; sometimes Nanda-dada used to take me to the meetings demanding independence, where I would hear fiery speeches being made.

  There is something I have forgotten to mention—I could sing rather well. I had a natural understanding of melody and tempo, and apparently my voice was sweet. Anyone who heard me sing would praise me. I cannot tell how I acquired this musical ability, for neither of my parents were musician
s of note. My father did purchase an excellent table harmonium for me, besides engaging someone to teach me to sing and to play the esraj.

  One day I discovered that Nanda-dada had got a pair of long daggers from somewhere. Putting them down on the table in front of me, he said, ‘You must learn how to use knives, Maani.’

  Picking up one of them, I said, ‘What are you saying, Nanda-da?’ He picked up the other one, holding it by the handle and pointing the blade at my chest, while gripping my wrist with his right hand and striking a pose that suggested he was indeed about to attack me.

  On my part I gripped his right wrist with my left hand, whereupon he said, ‘That’s right, this is how to ward off an attack.’ I had watched a demonstration by young men at a swadeshi meeting.

  I asked, ‘What use is it for girls to learn any of this?’

  Nandalal said, ‘Why, haven’t you heard the song, pick up the knife to protect your honour, my mother?’

  ‘Yes, I know it,’ I said and took myself off at once to the harmonium to remove the lid and press the keys as I sang.

  When the song ended my father came in to ask, ‘And what’s going on here, Khuku?’ Nanda-dada disappeared at once with the daggers through a different door; I still remember the incident clearly.

  One day my father took me to a swadeshi meeting, where I performed the same song, receiving great praise from everyone. My father delivered a speech at the meeting too, where the late Surendranath Bandhyopadhyay was the chairman. I did not know it then, but that was the beginning of my ruination.

  The severe flooding of the Damodar River had at that time led to the inhabitants of Burdwan, as well those of far-flung places around it, losing their homes and suffering great distress. A charity fund was started for the magnanimous sections of the population to contribute money in order to alleviate their plight. Benefit nights of films and plays, and other forms of entertainment, were organised to collect additional amounts.

  My father took me to the theatre and the cinema several times; Nanda-dada accompanied us. I was charmed by the acting and singing of the actors and actresses on stage. The first plays I watched being performed were, as I remember, Debi Chowdhurani and Alibaba. I learnt to sing ‘Beena baaje na kyano’ from Debi Chowdhurani and ‘Chhi chhi etta janjal’ from Alibaba with such perfection that my father would make me perform them repeatedly at home. Going to the bioscope every Sunday became a habit. Sometimes I would be accompanied by Nanda-dada, and at other times by my father, who also took me to the Brahmo Samaj meditation temple on some Sundays. He was not of the Brahmo faith, but he was as liberal-minded as Brahmos when it came to social practices.

  My father used to drape a garland of fresh flowers over my mother’s picture every single day after her death.

  No garlands are placed on her portrait now. A single strand of dried marigolds had lain across the picture for a long time before a servant swept it away one day. None of us was perturbed or unhappy about this. My house tutor would be present from six in the morning till nine, and then again from one to four in the afternoon. Occasional visits to the theatre on Saturdays, and regular visits to the bioscope on Sundays were a part of my routine.

  Thanks to Nanda-dada, I had acquired the art of knife-play, which a long scar on my right arm still bears testimony to. I had to abandon knives on my father’s orders, and this fascination was replaced by one for storybooks. My house tutor used to encourage me greatly in this pursuit.

  After Debi Chowdhurani, the next two plays I watched were, as I recollect, Bhromor and Kapalkundala. One day my house tutor told me, ‘One cannot savour Bankimchandra’s essence and beauty without reading his books in the original.’

  We had three cupboards filled with books at home; my tutor searched them to retrieve Bankim-babu’s collected works for me. I proceeded to read his novels during every waking hour. I did not always comprehend the meaning, but it generated an exquisite rapture in my heart. My widowed aunt, my father’s eldest sister, who had moved into our house to look after me, kept a constant vigil to ensure that I faced no inconveniences. One day I heard her tell my father, ‘It’s been almost a year, khoka. It wouldn’t be right to delay things any longer. You know the rules, it’s not as though you are not aware of the need to preserve the lineage to honour your ancestors.’ I did not understand then what she was talking about.

  My father had me re-admitted to Bethune School some time later, where I joined the fifth class. I began using the school bus, for my father said that he had to use the car quite often now, which meant it would not always be available to take me to school and bring me back on time. The house tutor continued visiting in the morning and the evening to teach me.

  I used to sleep in the same bed as my mother as long as she was alive. After her death I started sleeping in my father’s room, on a second bed. One day he told me, ‘You must sleep with your pishima from now on.’ I had never disobeyed him.

  Another day, my father sent for the servant and said, pointing to my mother’s large portrait on the wall, ‘Hang this in Khuku’s study.’ He had purchased two large, new bookcases and a mahogany desk for me, which had been arranged in my study. Now they were joined by a beautiful carpet on the floor, an expensive cut-glass inkpot, and a Waterman fountain pen. Summer had set in, the electric fan in my study was given a fresh coat of paint. And my mother’s picture took its place on the wall, amongst four western landscapes that were already there. My house tutor admired the new embellishments to the room. And I immersed myself in my studies, novels, the theatre and the cinema.

  Some time afterwards on a spring morning, the strains of wedding music began to play outside the front door. Neighbours, friends and family were absorbed in merriment, my aunt was engrossed with the rituals. I came upon my father dressed as a new groom. A palanquin appeared, bedecked with flowers. The procession glittered with lights as evening fell, and I, too, joined in the celebrations. Passing my study, however, my eyes fell suddenly on my mother’s portrait. I came to an abrupt halt; my eyes brimmed over with tears. Then I turned and went to bed. No one noticed; when I woke up next morning, my stepmother had arrived.

  Chapter the Second

  In Adolescence

  GRADUALLY THE TUMULT OF THE CELEBRATIONS died down, and reality began to dawn on me with every passing day. There was no requirement for my aunt to remain with us; she explained the details of the household to the new bride and returned home after six or seven months. I began to sleep alone in her room.

  My stepmother was one year older than me, but because of my well-developed body, I was the one who looked older. She was pretty, and had a rudimentary grasp of domestic chores and an elemental education. There was no reason for us to not get along, for I was busy with my studies most of the time.

  My stepmother would find a pretext to be close to my father whenever he visited the inner chambers. I no longer met him for any reason other than specific requirements. Earlier, he would enquire after my studies, and sit by me to listen to me sing, but not any longer. I did not accompany him and my stepmother when they went to the theatre; I went to the bioscope with Nanda-dada instead.

  For reasons unknown to me, my old house tutor was relieved of his responsibilities. ‘You are making progress with your education, the tutor is old-fashioned, you need someone familiar with teaching methods in schools and colleges.’

  My new tutor arrived a few days later. It is necessary to provide some details here.

  I was attracted to his appearance and nature on the very first day. He had long hair brushed back from his forehead, ending in thick curls at his shoulder, and seemed to be about twenty-two or twenty-three. It was not clear to me whether he was clean-shaven, or whether his whiskers had never grown. His dhoti fitted him loosely, like the baggy pyjamas favoured by kabuliwallahs. The upper half of his body was covered in a milk white panjabi—khadi was not the fashion yet. His nose was sharp and elegant, and he had beautiful eyes, which, however, were transformed by his gold-framed glasses. His feet were
shod in nagrai shoes embroidered with imitation zari. His complexion bordered on the dark, he was of relatively slight build, and his voice was like the notes of a flute. Having passed his BA examination recently, he now worked as a schoolteacher. My new tutor was unmarried.

  My education progressed very well with him. He was not particularly skilled at teaching mathematics, but he was an excellent teacher when it came to history and literature, especially poetry. He used to come both in the morning and in the evening; meanwhile, I was promoted from the Fourth Class to the Third.

  Nanda-dada studied two classes above me; he was due to have been promoted to the entrance class. But because of a lack of concentration, he failed his annual examination, and had to stay back in the second class. Nanda-dada and I used to take lessons from the same tutor.

  A few days later the tutor told me, ‘Don’t address me as mastar-moshai, Maanu, I dislike it. You may call me by my name.’ Without the slightest awkwardness, I replied, ‘Just as you dislike the word “moshai”, I too do not care to add the word “babu” after a name. Have you not seen babu as a suffix has been replaced by srijoot as a prefix these days?’

  Smiling, he said, ‘Very well, you may call me Mukul-dada. You do know my name is Mukul Bandyopadhyay?’ In this manner an intimacy began to develop between my tutor and me, and I began to address him as dada.

  One day my father sent for me to say, ‘Your tutor is used to having a cup of tea every morning and afternoon, khuku. Why don’t you make the arrangements for him here, he can come a little earlier in that case.’

  Tea would be made twice a day in our house. Earlier, it was my custom to drink tea with my father, but nowadays it was my stepmother who took his cup of tea to him. He never sent for me anymore, and I didn’t go either, preferring to finish my tea by myself in my study, before my tutor arrived.

  But now it was he who became my companion for a cup of tea—we would mostly talk about politics and society. The nationalist leaders were talking about ‘self-empowerment’ then. My tutor said, ‘The composers of the shastras have said that there is happiness in complete self-reliance, and misery in relying on others. Leave alone our food and clothing, we have to depend on other people for the slightest of things. For example, we cannot even have a cup of tea unless the servant makes it for us. And yet the task takes no more than two minutes. Our society and our lives are seeing a proliferation of such luxuries.’