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DIPLOMAT'S DIARY

Artful encounters

In the 1930s, while in my early teens, circumstances brought me in contact with many courtesans or dancing girls of Vizianagram. My brother-in-law and guardian, a composer and singer, often acted in plays and movies. He would ask artistes from among the city’s courtesans to go to Madras and record his songs for a gramophone company. He could not trust them to reach Madras as required, so he would send me the money to book their tickets. Thus I came to know many of the city’s courtesans.

It was not unusual in those days for high class male artistes and even householders to keep a courtesan individually. It was public knowledge. In some communities, it was a sign of prestige to keep a concubine, even in a village. Once, when my brother-in-law was in Calcutta for the shooting of the Telugu movie “Lava Kusha”, he sent me a parcel containing three silk saris. The parcel was actually from a noted Vizianagram artist and was meant for his courtesan. He requested my brother-in-law to see that it was delivered, without his family’s knowledge, to the lady. My guardian told me to deliver it. The lady concerned (popularly known as “Kalavar Ring”), received me courteously and gave me some snacks brought from a hotel. She asked me to drop by her house, which was on the way to my school. I occasionally stopped by to be fed such goodies. Once I found my teacher and a couple of other men whom I recognised sitting with her on her bed. My embarrassed teacher glared at me. The lady left them and ordered some snacks for me. She left the men alone until I finished eating and departed. I don’t know what she told the men but my teacher never said a word to me about the encounter.

When I was 12, I played a young student in the famous Telugu play “Kanya Sulkam”, a satire on the Brahmin community of the early 1900s. Rehearsals were held at the Maharaja’s drama academy every evening. I hoped that this would help me win a scholarship and a stipend for my studies. Three of the Maharaja’s courtesans played the main female roles. They were friendly and affectionate towards me and even asked me to call at their house on my way to school, which I occasionally did. They were high-class courtesans and did not entertain outside clients. I heard that each one received Rs.50 per month from the Maharaja; a princely amount at that time. After the British took over administration of the Maharajah’s estate on the ground of bad governance, the academy was wound up.

Later, while in college, I spent my annual vacation in Madras with my eldest sister and brother-in-law. My brother-in-law was the Assistant Director in a Telugu movie, and often took me along. While he went about his work I spent time with the artistes. Some female artistes invited me to their lodge, but my guardian didn’t trust them and made sure I was drawn away. He occasionally visited Telugu stars at their houses and took me along. He liked to show me off as a college student since there were not many college graduates in those times. Once, veteran actor Chittur Nagiah told my brother-in-law that he should let me continue my studies.

Obviously he thought my brother-in-law was trying to get me into films. I replied sharply that I had no intention of going into acting. After seeing the movie world and the lives of the stars, I had no desire at all to act. Even my brother-in-law was taken aback by my reaction, though he had never suggested that I enter the movies.

I also had a classmate from a courtesan family. Other students used to look down on him, but I was extra friendly and also visited his house. He had two sisters in the profession, which he felt was demeaning. He once confided that the family had no other means of earning a living. Foolishly, I asked why his sisters could not marry and settle down. He said, “Who will marry a girl from a courtesan family?” Only then did realise I the social stigma courtesans faced. They could enter a family home only when they were asked to dance during a wedding. It was a matter of prestige to have a nautch performance at a wedding, and was also considered auspicious because a courtesan never becomes a widow and is always a “Punyasthree”. Yet the same families would never let a courtesan visit them socially.

In North India I noticed that courtesans held dance performances at their houses. Quite a few men would attend, throwing money on the dance floor. The high-class courtesans were also experts in social etiquette; some families sent their children to them to learn etiquette. All over India, the courtesans preserved the arts of dance and music. As a result, dance and music were not practised in so-called respectable families. Rukmini Devi Arundale, a Brahmin lady married to a British theosophist, lent respectability to classical dancing by giving public performances in the early 20th century. She also established the famous Kalakshetra, a school for classical dance.

My contacts with courtesans made me sympathetic to them. They had a place of dignity in the Hindu and Muslim kingdoms of India. The high-class courtesans had scholarship and remarkable skill in wit and repartee and could hold their own among scholars and princes. The lack of royal patronage in British India led a large number to become prostitutes. After independence, some sanctimonious leaders succeeded in getting prostitution banned. Yet some of these very leaders kept courtesans from all classes. The ban only drove the profession underground.

That was why I refused cooperation when a Madras NGO came to Pondicherry and sought my help in “exposing this evil and eradicating it”. I was then Chief of Publicity in the Union Territory of Pondicherry. When I asked the ladies if they had any plan to rehabilitate these women they said they had none but they wanted me to allocate them a cameraman so that they could catch prostitutes “red-handed”. I said prostitution was legal in Pondicherry and there was nothing for them to expose. The IG of police, however, agreed to give them police protection.

The ladies later approached my cameraman and lied to him that I had approved his taking pictures. When the cameraman, Ramou, brought me the pictures next morning I tore them up. Poor Ramou was stunned and told me how the women had lied to him. Ramou received no payment and the ladies left disappointed.

In Japan, Thailand and the Philippines, during my official postings, I found a lack of hypocrisy over prostitution, which is practised openly through relevant establishments. In Amsterdam, I found prostitutes exhibiting themselves with full make-up like mannequins in glass cases. Out of curiosity I asked one of them what she would charge and she replied, “Fifty dollars”. I learnt later that the government required them to be medically examined periodically to make sure they did not spread disease.

P.J. Rao is the author of Anecdotes from a Diplomat’s Life, East West Books, 2007.