How the System Denied Me a Passport Because I am a Devadasi's Daughter

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25-05-2025

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How the System Denied Me a Passport Because I am a Devadasi's Daughter
Nari Kamakshi
7 minutes ago
My mother, like thousands of others, was dedicated to a temple as a child. Yet she raised me with dignity, strength, and defiance, working as a daily wage labourer to put me through school. I grew up watching her resist quietly, refusing to break under the same weight that crushed so many others.
Representative image of an Indian passport. Photo: Wikimedia Commons/muralisr/CC BY-SA 4.0 DEED.
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How many times must I prove I exist? How many forms must I fill out to explain why I don't have a father's name? Why does the system punish those of us born outside patriarchy's rules, even as it pretends to offer us a future?
Since 2023, I have been humiliated in my attempts to obtain a passport, and in that process, I found myself spiralling into a question that tormented me daily: Who am I if the state refuses to acknowledge that I belong? That one moment, being mocked and ridiculed for not having a father's name, shattered something deep inside me.
I left that office not only defeated by the rejection of my passport application but also crushed by the weight of feeling completely invisible. For the first time in my life, I felt erased. I cried uncontrollably on my way back, mourning not a piece of paper but the dignity that had been ripped away from me at that moment.
I am not alone. This isn't just a personal struggle – it's a reflection of the larger systemic failures that continue to oppress marginalised communities. A system that continues to erase people like me – Dalit women and their children – whose existence is inconvenient to the established social order.
When I was accepted into a PhD programme abroad, it was more than an academic milestone—it was a victory against a system that had long tried to silence people like me. I was ready to go. But then the passport office stopped me. I wasn't rejected for lack of qualifications or merit. I was denied because my mother, once a Devadasi, raised me alone.
The Devadasi system, rooted in caste-based oppression, has devastated thousands of women in Karnataka. My mother, like thousands of others, was dedicated to a temple as a child—an act that stripped her of agency and autonomy. She was forced into a life of servitude, denied the opportunity to marry, and made to serve deities through religious rituals. Yet she raised me with dignity, strength, and defiance, working as a daily wage labourer to put me through school. I grew up watching her resist quietly, refusing to break under the same weight that crushed so many others.
The term Devadasi refers to a centuries-old tradition where young girls were 'married' to temples and made to serve the deity. While it was intended to honour deities, over time, the practice became exploitative. Devadasis were condemned to poverty, sexual abuse, and social ostracism. Despite laws prohibiting the system, over 70,000 Devadasis still live in India, according to a 2015 NHRC report. Research by Jana Shakti and NLSIU shows that over 60% of their children drop out of school due to stigma, poverty, and bureaucratic neglect.
I am one of those children.
In April 2023, I applied for a passport in Delhi, thinking that my documents were in order. I carried everything I believed the system required—Aadhaar, voter ID, education certificates, and a government-issued certificate proving my mother's status as a Devadasi. I had been working in Delhi for over a year, supporting youth programmes and leading research in public education. My passport application should have been a routine task. But what transpired was a nightmare.
The officer flipped through my file with mechanical disinterest until he reached the 'Father's Name' field. He stared at it, then looked at me with disdain. 'Everyone has a father,' he sneered. 'Don't talk like an uneducated person.' People around me laughed. I stood silent, clutching the proof of my existence and of my mother's struggle. The sting of their laughter was sharper than I ever imagined.
I explained that I had been raised solely by my mother. I referenced the Maharashtra High Court's decision allowing a mother's name alone to be used in official documents. But none of that mattered. The officer rejected my application. 'You can try, but it'll likely be rejected at police verification,' he said.
The verification officer, who initially seemed sympathetic, later reported a discrepancy—again pointing to the missing father's name. I appealed, sent emails, and visited offices. No one replied.
Hours of waiting, pleading, and explaining led only to humiliation. To the system, I wasn't a person – I was a problem. The weight of caste and patriarchy crushed me into an administrative inconvenience. Though the officer eventually forwarded my application, he warned, 'At your own risk.' And he was right. It was rejected at police verification.
For the next two years, I was on the move – physically and emotionally – chasing a document that should have simply affirmed my existence. I returned to Delhi PSK repeatedly, hoping someone would see past the blank in the father's name column and see a human being with proof, purpose, and dreams. I filed appeals, wrote emails, and made visits. Silence. After nearly a year, I gave up and withdrew the application.
I wasn't ready to give up. In March 2025, I reapplied in Bengaluru under the Tatkal category. The deadline to submit my scholarship documents was near, and without a passport, I would miss my chance. This time, I was denied entry at the token counter.
The officer – whose only job was to issue tokens – had decided my fate before I even reached the verification desk. When I said I didn't have a father's name to provide, people around me laughed. Without a shred of empathy, the officer looked me in the eye and said, 'You must know your father's name. Don't talk like an uneducated person.' My blood ran cold.
Again, laughter. Again, shame. Again, dismissal.
After pleading with the token officer to no avail, I gave up and sank into a corner, speaking to my sister – both of us in tears – crushed, helpless, unsure what to do next.
I felt a deep, burning shame – not for who I am, but for daring to expect fairness from a system designed to erase people like me. I clutched my mother's certificate – her truth, my truth – as I watched my dreams dissolve into paperwork tossed between indifferent hands. Powerless and invisible, I cried.
Still, I held on to a thread of hope and requested to meet the Assistant Passport Officer, believing someone might finally understand the Devadasi system and see me as more than a missing name. I presented my mother's certificate from the Department of Women and Child Development—clear, legal proof of her status as a Devadasi. I also cited the Maharashtra High Court judgement, which explicitly affirms that a mother's name alone is legally valid for official documents.
But once again, I was dismissed.
Officials insisted I switch from Tatkal to the regular process, citing vague, arbitrary rules with no legal basis. I waited for hours, pleaded my case, and explained everything. The Assistant Passport Officer refused to consider my application.
My identity wasn't seen—it was sorted, stamped, and sidelined. Just another bureaucratic anomaly. Not a person. Not a citizen. Not worthy.
'Switch to the regular process!'
'This certificate is not enough!'
'Come back later!'
The voices echoed like verdicts. And I walked out, carrying more than just rejection – I carried the weight of being erased.
However, I changed my appointment from Tatkal to Normal and even changed my Passport Seva Kendra from Bangalore to Bellary because of awareness about the system. On May 1, 2025, I did my document verification and submitted a written letter explaining my mother's Devadasi status and requesting a passport.
My years of education, my PhD acceptance, and the stack of official documents I carried—none of it mattered. I was treated as though my very existence was an error. An anomaly unworthy of recognition. But this is no longer just my fight. Thousands of Devadasi children face the same barriers—most lose. They're denied passports, education, and dignity.
The Karnataka Devadasi (Prohibition of Dedication) Act, 1982, and the 2018 rehabilitation bill – on which I served as a Research Assistant – promised change. Yet seven years later, the bill remains unimplemented. Its silence in government offices is deafening.
Still, I remain committed. Every setback has only deepened my resolve. I founded a youth initiative to guide students from marginalised backgrounds in leadership and career paths, so no one else walks this road alone.
My lived experience fuels my activism. Education gave me the language to dream and resist. As a first-generation Dalit learner, it helped me question injustice and imagine freedom. But education alone hasn't been enough. Discrimination continues through red tape, silent rooms, and locked gates.
The government must act. Children from single-parent homes – especially Devadasi families – should not be forced to justify their identity again and again. Policies must explicitly state that a father's name is not mandatory. Officials must be trained to understand and respect our realities. Even in Tatkal cases, children of Devadasis deserve fair access, not ridicule.
To those still fighting: your struggle is valid. You are not a mistake. You owe no one an explanation for your birth.
The fight will go on for dignity, justice, and recognition. Not just for us, but for every child the world refuses to see.
Nari Kamakshi is an accomplished researcher and practitioner with a strong focus on education, youth empowerment, and social justice. She currently leads initiatives at Creatnet Education, Delhi. Views expressed here are the author's own.
This article first appeared on The News Minute and has been republished with permission.
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