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Kartik Puja

 


By Annam Suresh

 

While Ganesha, the elder son of Lord Siva is widely worshipped as the remover of obstacles and who is the first to be propitiated before launching absolutely anything, even daily prayers, his younger brother Kartikeya’s popularity seems to be confined to the south – especially Tamil Nadu with its famous Palani shrine.   Few know that he is also welcomed fondly by the women in West Bengal’s red-light areas. 

Kartik Puja is the most important festival for the women of the night in a state that is otherwise dominated by the worship of his powerful Mother.

 

The bright red sari with chamki all over is set off by the sharply contrasted parrot green choli with heavy mirror work. The cheap imitation jewellery and coloured glass bangles jangle in rhythm with the real silver anklets as her feet tap in gay abandon.

Her hair, wet with sweat, sticks to her heavily painted forehead. Her crimson lipstick is smudged as she sings along, mixing up the words of the bawdy song being churned out by the loudspeaker. Her kajal runs in streaks down her cheeks caked with powder and cheap rouge. She looks gaudy, she looks crass, she looks cheap, she looks the harlot she is. But today, she looks happy, carefree.

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It is well past midnight, but Menoka and her friends have just begun. So what if there is a ban on music so late in the night? This is her house. If she can entertain all and sundry 364 nights a year, surely she could sing and dance to her heart’s content just this one night.

Tonight is the 30th of the Bengali month of Kartik. "The whole world knows about Durga Puja in Bengal. But here, in the red-light areas, things are different. Even our festivals are a reflection of our lifestyle. We work for a living long after decent women have called it a day. Long after the bhadralok (genteel folk) have had their festivities -- Dussehra and Diwali, we celebrate our very own Kartik Puja" There is pride in his voice as Amit Das says "our Kartik Puja."

Son of a former sex worker, he married a sex worker. "This is our own Puja, and nowhere is it celebrated with as much pomp as in the homes of the harlots," he says, deliberately avoiding the use of the more politically-correct term ‘sex worker’.  Kartik Puja is something the sex worker considers her own festival. This is the biggest and most important festival in the red light areas of West Bengal.

Though the huge pandals and fancy lighting of  Durga Puja are missing, there is no mistaking the sense of celebration as the beating of dhols (local drums) and plaintive peals of the small shehnais lead you to a comparatively modest little altar set up in a shabby courtyard.

 

The flowers and the agarbathi do little to mask the stench of urine and tobacco; the new clothes and finery fail to cover the baggy eyes and puffy face that speak of many nights spent drinking and servicing clients.

The garbage pushed to one corner of the courtyard is symbolic of their life -- where they let their hair down this one day, sweeping to a corner the more harsh realities of the night they have just left behind and the starker truths that will face them the morning after.

But tonight is theirs,  just theirs;  Kartik thakur, they hope, will transform their barren life and finally emancipate them.

The preparation begins weeks in advance. People of a locality or in a cluster of brothels decide amongst  themselves who the fortunate hostess (occasionally host) of the Puja will be -- the hostess usually knows nothing of this since she is rarely consulted.

In the early hours of the 30th of the Bengali month of Kartik (sometime around the 15th of November), one of the local boys sneaks up to the door of the chosen hostess who is usually fast asleep after entertaining her client, and leaves an idol of Kartik at her doorstep.

The honoured hostess is usually a childless sex worker on the wrong side of fertility and pining for a child.

Some sex workers believe that by looking upon Kartik as their child, they find an outlet for their pent-up maternal feelings. Some others believe they might actually be blessed with a child. A few look upon him as a potential father for their child. This is ironic, since Kartik himself is considered impotent. Which is why he is more like a catalyst rather than a sire. Others hope to see in him the ideal Babu -- a customer who turns paramour and part-husband, sometimes contributing a little for the upkeep of the sex worker and her children. Often the paramour is, in fact, they kept rather than the keeper.

Once the sex worker finds that she has been chosen hostess for her divine ‘Babu’ or child, in whichever form she sees Kartik, she makes hasty preparations for the festivities. Feasting, accompanied by liquor, is a must. Often, a single day’s celebration can run into several thousands of rupees.

While the lunch served is an elaborate meal, the real celebrations begin after sunset. Even clients are offered  special treatment - who knows, one may turn out to be the father of the child that the sex worker has been pining for!

Liquor flows - both for the client and the guests. Not even the celebrations bring business to a halt. The women, children, the pimps and the traders of the area, as well as Babus and clients…all take part in the celebrations -- drinking and dancing with gay abandon.

But every once in a while the women will disappear with a client. "Since it is a very special festival for us, we can often persuade our clients to be extra generous and many of them not only pay us much higher than our regular rates, but some of our regulars who know it is Kartik Puja, come prepared with alcohol and gifts. In fact, some of them would love to father a child on this night." This is a weakness many prostitutes will actually exploit,  admits Shefali.  “ Since  we know the weakness of some of these men,  we assure them that they would be our only client that night or that we would name the child after him -  often a promise we do not keep,  but it makes the man feel good enough to part with extra money,.  Of course,   this can only be done with some men--  many of them would be frightened away by the prospect of being confronted with a child they may have fathered.   Since this business is all about exploitation,  and who should know this better than us,  every one grabs every opportunity to make that little extra  money.”

The festival is something they all look forward to. "This is my son… Two months after I was made hostess, I found him abandoned by another young sex worker. So I took him as the answer to my prayers and have named him Kartik" says Sunita, pushing a shy four-year-old in front.

The mood, mostly full of harmless fun and frolic and very bawdy, can be quite infectious. Even little children stay up all night dancing, and by early morning, many of them manage to get tipsy on a few drops of liquor licked off the fingers of indulgent adults every now and then.

The loudspeakers blare all night spouting Hindi film songs, the raunchier the better, while Madames and novices, children and grownups, pimps and Babus, moneylenders and rickshawallas, clients and relatives join in the revelry.

"Most nights we drink and entertain our clients, but without any sense of pleasure or participation. But tonight’s our night -- the brew is headier and even sex seems more meaningful. Even though it is business, it is also pleasure, for once" says Rupali, sporting the new silver earrings one of her  regulars had presented her last night.

 

While the community is present in full force to participate in the celebrations at night,  the morning after  it is the hostess alone who wakes up to stark reality.  A single night like this could have set her back several thousands of rupees,  and the child she longed for may never materialize.  Often,  many of them have to buy the food and the liquor,  as well as the clothes,   the fancy imitation jewellery,  sweets,  in addition to hiring the drummers who are a must at these soirees,  the priests,  the gifts for the Madame /landlady etc on credit and the hostess can remain trapped in this debt for years.

 

The one-day festival often extends to two or three days,  after which the idol is taken in a procession to the beating of drums and cymbals and immersed in the Ganges.  And that truly emphasizes the return to routine and facing up to the reality of probably having helplessly immersed oneself in a quagmire of irredeemable debt.

 

Like Minakshibai.  Past forty and childless,   she had become a bitter woman who had few friends.  Age had shrivelled her body and business. With few clients  coming her way,  she had taken in three girls who paid her half their earnings.  But after a bitter quarrel, the paramour of one of the girls took revenge by placing an image of Kartik outside her house.  “There is no way the  recipient of an idol can refuse to honour the choice -- so very reluctantly,  I had to play hostess.  That was three years ago,  when out of the total expenditure of 4000 rupees,  nearly 3500 was on credit.  Today,   that 3500 had gone up to nearly 10,000 and I am still paying through my nose.  I have taken in two more girls in this little place,  and I myself continue to service the odd client,  but I don’t think I will ever be able to pay off my debts.  Like Minakshi,  many of the women become victims of  score-settling,  but by and large,  the festival  is something they all look forward to. 

“Our life is  hopeless anyway.  At least this gives us something to look forward to.  And in our life of make-believe,  we have at least something that we can call our very own”  remarks Shefali who has been dancing away her blues all night in clothes and jewellery gifted by her clients.

 

As if on cue,  Somen Sarkar  beats a trendy, deafening beat on the dholak accompanied by his brothers on the shehnai and cymbal,  drowning all other sounds and memories.  For these two nights at least the wretched women of the red-light areas  are transported to heaven.

 

 

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