Breaking The Chains: Will The New Law End Karnataka’s Devadasi Curse?

In another month, 29-year-old Kamakshi will walk through the gates of the University of Sussex in England, carrying an admission letter that makes her the first woman from a Devadasi family in her village to pursue a PhD abroad.

Her journey from Nagenahalli in Koppal district of North Karnataka is a testament to quiet resilience. Educated entirely in Kannada-medium schools, she endured years of financial hardship and the constant sting of a question that followed her everywhere—from classrooms to ration offices: “Who is your father?”

For her, the question was never about biology. It was about a centuries-old system that decided her place in society long before she was born. The Devadasi practice—dedicating girls to temples as 'servants of god'—stripped women of agency and condemned generations to lives marked by sexual exploitation, caste oppression, and poverty.

Now, as Kamakshi prepares to leave for England, a turning point is also unfolding in Karnataka’s legal history. Last Thursday, the Siddaramaiah-led Congress government approved the draft of the Karnataka Devadasi (Prevention, Prohibition, Relief and Rehabilitation) Bill, replacing the outdated 1982 Act and its 2010 amendment.

The bill is expected to be tabled in the monsoon session of the Assembly within days, with rare cross-party consensus paving the way for swift passage.

Experts say the older laws banned the dedication of women to temples but offered only token Rehabilitation. Devadasi women were treated as passive victims of a crime, not as citizens entitled to dignity, equality, and opportunity. Their children—lacking legal recognition—were routinely denied education, welfare benefits, and even the right to exist in official records without invoking a father’s name.

“It recognises that ending the Devadasi system requires empowerment, not just prohibition. Every child born to a Devadasi is now legally recognised, and will be legitimate and have full rights to property, inheritance, and maintenance. We are in the process of having the father’s name optional,” adds T Ramanjaneya, one of the forces behind the new legislation and main functionary of Sneha Trust at Kudligi in Vijayanagara district.

In north Karnataka, the practice remains most common among marginalised Dalit and backwards caste communities—Madiga, Holeya, and other Scheduled Castes.

Girls, often between the ages of six and ten, are `married’ or dedicated to a goddess, most often Yellamma (Renuka), at temples like the one in Saundatti, Belagavi district.

Framed as a sacred duty, it often forces women into sexual exploitation once they reach puberty. Many end up in urban red-light districts in Mumbai, Pune, or Goa.

With poverty and stigma weighing heavily, the daughters of Devadasis often become Devadasis themselves.

The new law goes beyond identity recognition. It establishes a comprehensive rehabilitation charter, making housing, healthcare, education, living expenses, vocational training, and anti-poverty measures state obligations rather than ad-hoc welfare schemes.

“In another first, the bill institutionalises community participation,” says P.S. Nazar, project officer with Visthar Trust in Koppal. “Vigilance and Implementation Committees at the taluk, district, and state levels will have civil court powers and must include Devadasi women as members. This is a decisive move from top-down charity to justice shaped by those who have lived injustice. Penalties have also been strengthened: dedicating a woman or girl will now attract two to five years in prison and a ₹1 lakh fine—a significant leap from earlier, symbolic punishments,” said Nazar, who is working in the sector of educational empowerment of children of Devadasis.

For legal experts, the bill’s strength lies in closing the loopholes that allowed discrimination to survive in paperwork, classrooms, and police stations. The 1982 Act and its 2010 amendment had outlawed dedication, but the practice persisted in secret. Its victims—women and children—remained trapped in cycles of stigma and poverty.

The push for the new law began in 2022, when grassroots collectives like Mahila Abhivruddhi Mattu Samrakshana Samsthe (MASS) and Sangama presented stark findings to the Social Welfare Department.

Their surveys revealed that 68 per cent of children from Devadasi households in northern Karnataka had been denied at least one government service due to missing paternal details.

Only 12 per cent of women enrolled in rehabilitation schemes received support beyond a single year. Across the region, vigilance committees were often non-functional or nonexistent.

By mid-2023, the Congress government moved to act. The drafting committee that was convened included legal experts, bureaucrats, activists, and, for the first time, survivors as equal participants.

They resisted attempts to merely “upgrade” the old Act and demanded a rights-based framework: complete legal legitimacy for children of Devadasis without mandatory paternal identity, Rehabilitation as a legal right, civil court powers for vigilance bodies, and deterrent punishments for dedication without criminalising survivors or their families.

Bureaucratic resistance was immediate. Revenue officials worried that omitting the father’s name could complicate inheritance disputes.

Police officers questioned whether harsher penalties could be enforced without a stronger investigative capacity.

The final draft addressed these concerns by explicitly declaring children of Devadasis “legitimate for all legal purposes” while making maternal name-based documentation binding in official processes.

The Bill’s Cabinet clearance was eased by rare political convergence. The ruling party saw it as a progressive milestone; the opposition, mindful of the large Devadasi population in northern Karnataka, chose not to block it.

But compromises crept in. Clauses that would have made temple authorities criminally liable for facilitating dedication were softened under pressure from religious trusts.

Instead, liability applies to those “aiding, abetting, or benefiting” from the practice—a definition that can still cover temple figures but requires prosecutors to prove direct involvement.

If history is any guide, the real challenge begins after the law’s passage. Karnataka has seen progressive legislation stall due to a lack of funds, personnel, and political will.

The new Bill attempts to address this by making Rehabilitation a budget-line obligation, requiring annual public reports from vigilance committees, and allowing Devadasi representatives to initiate inquiries independently. Yet activists remain cautious.

“Passing a law is only the first battle,” says Bengaluru-based activist Brinda Adige. “We’ve had laws before. This time, we are optimistic the law is effective, comprehensive and addressing the concerns of the survivors,” she said.

Legal scholars view the legislation as transformative. It dismantles structural injustices by recognising survivors’ dignity and giving their children complete legitimacy.

Official forms will no longer demand a father’s name, ensuring that no child is excluded from school, a ration card, or a bank account for lack of one.

“Rehabilitation is embedded as a state duty, not a favour. Vigilance committees with Devadasi representation and civil court powers mark a shift from tokenism to genuine accountability,” said Brinda.

Kamakshi’s own story embodies both the old wounds and the new hope. The law comes too late to spare her the childhood spent explaining herself to sceptical teachers and clerks. But it arrives in time for the girls growing up in her village now. She plans to return to Karnataka after her research, determined to work for her community’s empowerment.

“If Kamakshi uses her higher education to work for the betterment of Devadasi communities, it will be a meaningful and worthy endeavour,” says Ramanjaneya.

When she walks into Sussex this September, she will bring more than books and research notes. She will carry the story of a law born from decades of struggle—a law that, if enforced, could ensure that no girl from Nagenahalli or anywhere in Karnataka will ever again be defined by a space on a form or a whispered question in a classroom.

No more invisible children. No more Devadasis. And, one day, no need for stories like hers at all.