In some rural parts of Telangana, Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, and Maharashtra, there exists a tradition that sounds spiritual on the surface but is cruel at its core. It is called the Jogini system (also known as Devadasi or Mathamma in different regions). Here, young girls, mostly from Dalit and lower-caste families, are “married” to a local deity, usually Goddess Yellamma or Renuka.
Once this happens, the girl is declared Nitya Sumangali eternally married. It sounds poetic. It is not. Because this “marriage” does not give her protection, dignity, or security. It takes away her childhood, her freedom, and often her entire future.
Most Joginis do not choose this life. It is chosen for them. The story usually starts with fear. A family faces illness, crop failure, debt, or repeated bad luck. Someone, a priest, an elder, a village influencer, steps in with a solution: “The Goddess is angry.” And then comes the suggestion: “Dedicate your daughter to her.”
Poor families, already struggling, are emotionally pressured into believing this is the only way to save themselves. They are told their daughter will become divine, respected, and blessed. The girl is often just five to ten years old. She does not understand gods or rituals. She only knows adults are serious, her parents are crying, and something permanent is happening.
A thaali (mangalsutra) is tied around her neck not to a man, but to a deity. From that moment on, she belongs to the Goddess. And to the village.
For years, the child grows up like any other girl, playing, studying a little, helping at home. Then she reaches puberty. That is when the real horror begins. A ceremony is organised. It is presented as a religious event. But behind closed doors, something else happens. Because she is “married to the Goddess,” she is considered available. Her virginity is often claimed by a powerful man, sometimes a landlord, sometimes a village head, sometimes a priest. In many cases, this “first night” is quietly auctioned. The man pays ritual expenses or gives the family a small amount of money.
This is not tradition. This is ritualised sexual abuse. The girl has no voice in this decision. She is told this is her duty. A life with no exit after that first assault, the pattern continues. She cannot marry a human man. No one will accept her as a wife. Instead, she becomes what the village treats as public property.
Men come to her when they want. She is expected to go. She usually lives in her parents’ house, but survives on whatever money or food these men provide. There is no fixed income, no stability, no safety. Consent does not exist in her world. Refusal is not an option.
If she becomes pregnant, the child grows up without a father’s name. Many of these children face discrimination in school and society. And heartbreakingly, the daughters of Joginis are often pushed into becoming Joginis themselves. The cycle keeps repeating.
One of the most disturbing parts of this system is its contradiction. On festival days, Joginis are treated with respect. People touch their feet. They carry sacred pots during rituals. For a few hours, they are seen as vessels of the Goddess. But on normal days? They are treated worse than sex workers. They are mocked, avoided, and exploited. They have no legal protection, no social standing, and no real community support.
Religion becomes a mask. Exploitation hides behind devotion.
When a Jogini grows older and is no longer considered “useful” to men, she is abandoned. There is no pension. No rehabilitation. No safety net. Many end up begging outside the same temples where they were once dedicated. This begging is called Jogwa.
Imagine that. You give your entire life to a system that promises divinity. And it leaves you on the street. Health problems are common. Because these women have no power to demand protection, rates of sexually transmitted infections and HIV are dangerously high. Medical care is rare. Mental trauma is lifelong.
It Is Illegal, yet It Continues. India officially banned this practice under the Devadasi Prohibition Acts decades ago. On paper, the Jogini system does not exist anymore. In reality, it continues quietly in remote villages, disguised as tradition and protected by silence.
Districts like Mahbubnagar and Nizamabad in Telangana, and Belagavi in Karnataka, are known hotspots.
The law exists, but enforcement does not. Because the victims are poor, because they are Dalit, their suffering is invisible. Listening to the Women, several investigations and interviews have brought these stories to light, including ground reports by The News Minute, which spoke directly to Jogini women in Telangana.
Their words are simple, heartbreaking, and powerful.
Many said they were never asked. Many said they were children. Many said they still do not understand why God would want this.
One woman said -
“They told us the Goddess would protect us. But no one protected us.”
This Is Not Culture. This Is Violence. Let us be very clear. This is not faith. This is not spirituality. This is not heritage. This is gendered caste violence wrapped in religion. It targets the most vulnerable: Poor families, Dalit communities, Young girls. It uses fear to control. It uses God to justify abuse. And it survives because society looks away.
The Jogini system thrives in silence. Every time we speak about it, write about it, or share these stories, we weaken that silence. Awareness matters. Education matters. Strong rehabilitation programs matter. Most importantly, listening to survivors matters. These women do not need pity. They need dignity, opportunity, and justice. They need society to finally admit that what happened to them was wrong.
Somewhere in a village right now, a little girl might be wearing a mangalsutra she does not understand. Adults around her may call her blessed. But her future is being decided without her consent. The Jogini system does not steal lives loudly. It does it quietly. Through rituals.
Through tradition. Through normalised cruelty.
And until we confront it honestly, generations of girls will continue to pay the price.
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