Anil Yadav, author of Courtesans Don’t Read Newspapers (which comprises the eponymous novella and five short stories), reflected on how religious elites manipulate language to legitimise the sexual subjugation of women. He observed that ours is a culture that worships women, only to assert dominance over them, allowing traditionally powerful and corrupt groups to use sexual violence as a tool to deny women bodily autonomy. In a conversation with Scroll, Yadav explored the links between prostitution and capitalism. He also addresses the institutional discrimination faced by minorities. Excerpts from the interview:
In the novella Courtesans Don’t Read Newspapers, you write, “The flag-bearers of Kashi’s culture insist that even today their newspapers didn’t write about prostitutes without first showing them the respect owed to sisters and daughters.” This meant substituting “rape” with “breach of modesty”. They call the sex workers “nagarvadhu”, brides of the town. And they don’t hesitate to call the red light district “Manav Mandi”. Where does this need for sanitisation of language come from while talking about the horrors faced by women? Why do they create a false illusion of respect and safety? Whose “modesty” are they protecting?
“The flag-bearers of Kashi’s culture” here refers to the traditional elites of the society who, like other elite groups of the world, wield language to portray themselves as more superior, righteous and cultured than others. This sanitisation of language comes with manifold benefits. First, it lessens the gravity of the crime and muddies the reality of the situation, so rape becomes a breach of modesty, thus only challenging a woman’s dignity and resilience. Another perk of this hypocrisy is that some victims do end up believing in these soft-spoken charlatans and start to expect help or relief from them. The reality is that this illusion of respecting and protecting women in language, like calling them goddesses and deeming them worshipable time and again, helps control women while those in power can have their way with them. Ultimately, it’s a tool to enable double standards and legitimise oppression.
The name “Manav Mandi” wasn't coined by the flagbearers, but by some realistic police officer, contrasting the elitist approach of those who refer to prostitutes as courtesans. The police’s goal here is to extort money from human traffickers, like a tax on the trade of women’s bodies.
Another important point here is that those who are “protected” by the religious elites, in this case, women, aren’t allowed to talk about their suffering, as it’s considered shameful and disobedient.
Why does society hate sex work? Why do we demonise sex workers? What does this reveal about us?
As children, we are taught to think of sex as a dirty and disgusting act, but none of us are able to hate sex, as it’s a natural pleasure of life available to everyone without discrimination under normal circumstances. I think those who sing praises of celibacy and call sex a sinful act want all the sex only for themselves and wish to control the senses of others. In our culture, women have always been seen as property, and a lot of emphasis has been put on controlling their behaviour. Prostitutes are women who, since the dawn of civilisation, have defied this control and used their bodies as they desired. They expose the falsehoods of institutions like family, marriage, and other forms of morality, and are hence hated by the same society. Our society doesn’t want to accept its failures and resorts to avoiding prostitutes altogether.
Are there any ethics when it comes to sex work? There are a lot of debates about the future of sex work. While some believe that the rehabilitation of sex workers should be followed by a ban or a curb on sex work, others hold the opinion that sex work provides agency to women over their bodies and livelihoods. What are your thoughts on this matter as a journalist and a writer?
At one point, it was a topic of debate in the social welfare state as to whether the rehabilitation of sex workers meant stopping them from selling their bodies or should one think of the autonomy of the said sex workers over their own bodies. But in the present time and day, the discussion is pointless as the state has been replaced by market forces and capitalism, which has no morality other than the mindset that more business means more benefit. The wishes of the individual woman don’t mean anything anymore either, as everything now depends on the agencies, middlemen and pimps who create, train, control and market different types of prostitutes to suit the needs of different consumer groups. This trade is only going to increase in the future. You could think of the porn industry as its advertising arm, with our country having the largest consumer base in the world.
Writing with the fervour of a journalist, you expose the symbiotic relationship between Indian bureaucracy, religion and Hindu orthodoxy, and how this mixture drives hatred for the sex workers of Kashi. In the novella Courtesans Don’t Read Newspapers, Prakash, an ordinary reporter from Kashi, longs to become a watchdog for democracy. However, the state of journalism is such that the newspaper refuses to run his piece about powerful civil servants and businessmen who have joined forces to drive out sex workers, use violence and starve them if necessary, in order to make profits off their settlement land. What happens to a journalist like Prakash in real life? Does he resign to his fate, or does he keep on fighting?
Most real-life counterparts of Prakash struggle a little before they succumb and become a part of the same power establishment. Some are driven out of journalism entirely and end up ruined. There are a rare few who stick to their values while trying to survive in the system. The people most responsible for such a fate are the owners who have big investments in media houses and employ people like Prakash. Mostly, the owners support this caucus for their own financial benefits and people like Prakash have to remain silent.
With intricate details, your novella opens a new window into the world of sex workers. At times, your writing uncovers devastating realities of sex work that compel readers to confront facts we wish to look away from – such as the practice of wood feeding, a technique used to ease new girls into sex work. What compelled you to write this novella? How did you research for it? How much of it is based entirely on the real lives of sex workers?
Those days I used to work in a newspaper in Varanasi which routinely published articles propagating the ideas that prostitutes were affluent, crazy, ill-mannered and debauched and wished to destroy the culture of this holy city. One day I went there myself to see their condition and was forced to stay with them for a few days as the police didn’t let me out. This story was born out of my experiences living with them. Most of the details are factual and eyewitness accounts. Later, I did have to do some research, which was made easier by my connections with the community.
In your story, “Lord Almighty, Grant Us Riots!”, there are invisible forces of violence that make life unlivable for the residents of a Muslim neighbourhood of Varansi – flooded settlements that the government won’t recognise as flooded to prevent the disbursement of flood aid, people dying from waterborne diseases, people forced to live amongst the filth, shit and piss from sewage, children dying from drowning in sewage water. These communities are abandoned by healthcare professionals, journalists, and politicians. Is this violence also a kind of riot?
There are many such settlements in Varanasi and other parts of eastern Uttar Pradesh and western Bihar. Looking at them, I felt that it was the state that wanted to silently kill its minority citizens by drowning them in sewer water and the media, the bureaucracy, and political parties were all complicit in this effort. Calling it a riot doesn’t seem right, as only one side is the aggressor, perpetrating the violence. The young characters in this story want to die with the honour of a warrior, fighting face to face in a real Hindu-Muslim riot, rather than dying helplessly after falling prey to this conspiracy.
“The Magic of Certain Old Clothes” gives us a peek into the lives of an urban couple, Nalin and Neelima, who hold opposing ideas about class and dressing etiquette. Nalin is opposed to buying clothes (often second-hand) sold by roadside vendors. Neelima, on the other hand, enjoys buying these clothes as they fit her budget. By the end of the story, their relationship collapses. Does Nalin wish to climb the ladder of financial class by exclusively buying from expensive international brands? Have urban Indians become obsessed with the markings of social and financial class that these expensive brands create? Do such materialistic desires create rifts in relationships? Additionally, why is there a distaste for roadside vendors selling second-hand clothes from international brands? Is it because roadside vendors make these clothes accessible to those who cannot afford them?
There’s no doubt that the practice of flaunting one’s status and judging others by branded cars, shoes, perfumes, clothes, jewelry, etc. has existed for a long time. Nalin wants to flaunt his wealth and taste through these branded clothes, but fears getting caught. He keeps them hidden from Neelima because he has lied to her about his past. Neelima sees through his duplicity. She thinks his love for her is a fad as well. He’ll eventually confine her to the house like most narrow-minded, feudal men, so she decides to end the relationship.
Many people don’t want to reveal their true circumstances to these shopkeepers. While buying these clothes, people use certain words and gestures to portray that they aren’t buying them for themselves but for their servants or poor relatives.
Anil Yadav’s responses have been translated by Vaibhav Sharma from the Hindi. He has also translated the book Courtesans Don’t Read Newspapers into English.
