From the memoir: Transgender folk dancer Manjamma recalls her first guru and his lessons

I met Appaji by chance. His name was Matikallu Basappa, I called him Appaji. One day, I was seeking alms at a bus stand in Davanagere when I saw a large crowd and heard the sound of the chaudaki, a folk musical instrument, from a distance. I also headed there thinking that if nothing else, I could earn a few extra rupees. When I went closer, I saw an old man dressed in a lungi and shirt, holding the taala (cymbals) in his left hand and playing the chaudaki shruthi instrument with his right as he sang along, while a very young boy, sporting a long braid, danced to the music. I stood and watched them perform three–four songs and spared them a few coins from my day’s collection.

Back then, people had to wait for a long time for the bus. I saw that when a sizeable number of people had gathered, the man would begin to perform. When the bus arrived and they all left, he would smoke a beedi, chew some paan and sit back and wait for the next lot of people. I watched while about four batches of people gathered and departed. I was besotted by the boy’s dancing and my feet naturally took me to them. “Appaji!” I called out and asked if he would teach me to dance like the boy. We then got talking. He asked me about myself and I recounted the story of my life so far. He heard me out and agreed to teach me; he invited me to his home.

“You can watch your tamma (younger brother) and learn,” he said. The boy, Parashurama, was his son and had become a Jogathi at that young age. He was dancing with the Goddess, carrying a pot on his head. I accompanied the father–son duo to their house that evening, had dinner with them and returned home. That was a night my dreams were rekindled, literally.

In all my excitement to learn dance, I just couldn’t go to bed. So I placed a small pot on my head and kept moving around in my tiny house, trying some moves and patting my back, feeling good about it. Finally, when fatigue got the better of me, I went to sleep only to dream of dancing with people in the market. The sound of claps and whistles was so loud that I woke up with a jerk. I was glad to be dreaming again, both literally and metaphorically. I went back to sleep, eagerly awaiting an early dawn.

The next day I reached Appaji’s house and began what was to be almost a year-long apprenticeship, an unpaid one at that. He first made me practise by balancing an ordinary pot on my head while I did some moves. In the market I would sit and watch Parashurama dance and mentally make notes of all the moves and steps. It took me three or four months to learn all the steps and get the moves right. Nothing fancy, just simple steps, not like the attractive moves dancers use these days. But my deep desire to learn didn’t let me sleep until I had mastered the art. Once I had learned well, Appaji started taking me with him to perform on Fridays and Sundays. I imbibed many life lessons touring with him this way. I didn’t earn a single pie, though. I danced for hours together at times, yet he wouldn’t pay me a single rupee nor give me some time to rest. We didn’t speak much either.

I remember we went once to the chilli fair at Ranibennur. Those days farmers who came to such fairs were also very devoted. They honoured Jogathis wholeheartedly and paid them handsomely in kind. This fair earned Appaji four large sacks of chillies but, as was the norm, I didn’t get even a handful. I wonder what made him act that way.

We went around the village all day, dancing in front of every single house. As dusk fell we headed towards the fields where those working there formed groups and asked for Yellamma’s story to be narrated. Appaji would sing and I would dance gleefully. As the spectators applauded and whistled I would dance with greater zeal, adding many more attractive moves and gestures.

It was physically draining but nothing fuels an artistmore than the sound of cheering. I would be dead as we headed back home. And he would be flush with the produce the farmers would generously offer as a token of appreciation for having told the tale of the Goddess and entertained them. It went on this way for almost a year, after which I slowly distanced myself from the duo and joined another team of Jogathis, Girijamma and Bhagamma, who were much respected in and around Davanagere.

A few years ago, I met Parashurama at a temple fair and was saddened to see him looking frail and loitering all by himself. He came up to me and said that Basappa had passed away a few years ago and he now lived alone. I gave him some money and we parted. I haven’t heard from him since. But till my last breath I shall remember both of them with a lot of reverence and respect, because even though they didn’t give me a single rupee, they gave me the art which today has earned me all that I have, which helped win love, respect and recognition for the entire community. Maybe the year-long unpaid internship was the fee for acquiring this art. This art has not only kept me alive, it has transformed me from just another transgender seeking alms on the street to an internationally recognised folk artist.

Most important, Appaji became a father figure to the bruised, orphaned heart of a 20-year-old and helped it heal and find a new lease of life.

Excerpted with permission from From Manjunath To Manjamma: The Inspiring Life of a Transgender Folk Artist, Jogati Manjamma and Harsha Bhat, HarperCollins India.