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These chelas are actually darogas, the hereditary servants who are the illegitimate offspring of a thakur with a daori, or female servant. The girls who were born to daoris were mostly killed at birth; the rest were either given away as dowry during the weddings of their legitimate daughters to chiefs and nobles, or married to other chelas.

The nobles, chiefs and thakurs housed the daoris in separate accommodations, often on the fringes of the havelis. Apart from serving as concubines for these thakurs, the daoris also doubled as rudaalis, or mourners, for the family in times of death and sickness.

.. “Women’s brains are hardwired to feel loss and grief. They have a weak heart,” the Thakur says, patting his chest under his kurta. “We don’t allow the women in our families to make a sight of themselves outside our homes. High-caste woman do not cry in front of commoners. Even if their husbands die, they need to preserve their dignity. These low-caste women, rudaalis, do the job for them. The whole village feels the loss . . . She represents their sadness,” he says, concluding his speech, and the chelas furiously nod their heads, as if mentally applauding him.

.. “Do they live with their families or—”

“No, no,” interjects the Thakur before I can finish the question. “They live in their own kutiya near the haveli. These women have no family. We are their family. The whole village is their family. Once they leave their home and come as a gift to me in marriage, they never go back, even to visit. They have to live with us in the village and serve us menfolk.

.. “Can I meet them?”

“No, madam, our women have to preserve their lajja,” he answers immediately, as if the possibility of such a feat had never been considered before. “They can’t be out in the open. It is their duty to take care of the children and men of the households. We don’t allow them to meet strangers. After all, we have to protect their virtue. You can ask me whatever you want to know. They are delicate fragile things . . .”

.. “Do you have any sisters?’ I ask the chela, a young boy with lost brown eyes.

“No, two were born to my mother, but died a few days after they were born. We don’t keep girl children, madam.”

.. Pushing the envelope a bit further, I ask one of the boys, “So is the Thakur your father?”

“No, madam, I only have a mother. We are not supposed to have fathers. My mother also never had a father,” he replies, in a low, even tone, his head slightly lowered.

.. “Do you know what the going rate for dowry is around here, madam?” he says in a mocking tone.

“It is six to eight kilos of gold at least. Plus, if you are from a rich family, you have to give them servants, cars, silver, welcome them with your heads lowered, and heed to their incessant demands. Last year, a girl’s wedding took place for the first time in this village in eighty years. She was among the few who survived. They tried to poison her but she vomited it out. So her family assumed that she was a gift from Lord Krishna and kept her.”

.. Where women’s participation in the public realm is carefully policed, occupying the position of a concubine gives them and their children access to the homes of rich landed men. They pray—to the god Bheruji, who himself was a lusty bachelor and loved seducing young girls, especially from lower castes—for these men to live long lives. In a way, they seize these cultural and religious practices to achieve dignity, which—otherwise, being landless, impoverished women—would not be accessible to them.

.. They also devised rituals where their high status and position was preserved, which translated into elaborate death rituals. Lamenters and mourners, hence, gained precedence, and unfortunate women who were widowed, impoverished or served as servants in the royal households were turned into rudaalis, or professional mourners. “The rudaali, somewhat “chose” her future the moment she survived her birth to a lower-caste mother,” murmurs Satar.

.. The rest sing praises in his memory.

“Yes, yes, he liked his moustache trimmed downwards,” says his barber.

“He helped me get my daughter married to his munshi’s son. What a great man!” whispers another.

“He did that without any commission?” asks another. “Just two kilos of gold and my three goats.”

 

.. But this is only the first session: the performance goes on for twelve days after a death. A longer mourning period better explains the family’s class denomination, and the more theatrical the act, the more it is spoken about in the neighbours’ homes.

.. “As long as a woman has a husband, she has esteem in the village,” says Feroja, one of the three rudaalis at the mourning. “With him gone, she has to cover her face from strangers, keep away from pujas and be the unlucky one who caused her husband’s death.”