Parde ke peeche kya hain?

Smelly lanes, wet clothes leaking down ancient balconies, beefy men with ogling eyes, slimy pools of spit and paan staining the dented footpaths. A visual, olfactory overload hit me, as I stood taking in Budhwar Peth. When I say Budhwar Peth, I don’t mean the electronics or stationery hub of the city. I’m talking about exactly what Budhwar Peth makes anyone even mildly in the know think of. Yes, the notorious Red Light area. “I’m happy about your cause, but does it HAVE to be this?” was my mother’s concern when I told her I would be coming here for the next three weeks. I wondered myself. There are organizations dealing with children, cleanliness, education, nature, HIVAIDS and so on. But why was I so hell bent on Saheli that dealt with prostitution? Was it curiosity? Fascination? An attraction for this enigma of a world only whispered about?

I parked my bike cautiously with muddy feet and tossed a mandatory dupatta around my neck. Right across me sat some women wearing bright saris and gowns, flowers in their hair and indifferent faces. A group of youngsters passed by, looked at them, at each other and exchanged a smirk. I rolled my eyes and set off towards the office. The magnitude of what I had gotten into set in, sparking excitement and unease. Saheli HIVAIDS Karyakarta Sangha is a CBO (Community Based Organization). A CBO is when the community in question works for itself and we volunteers simply assist them. While climbing the stairs, I passed the Community Kitchen that bustled with women and spicy aromas, the Care Home, a day care facility and a tiny library with a mirror. The next floor was the main office. Shelves exploding with stacks of files and papers, Zaroor condom boxes, a rudimentary computer and lots of very visual posters invited me as I settled down expectantly, welcomed by simple, warm co-volunteers. We were briefed, told to completely shed any inhibitions and specifically, respect this uncharted territory we were about to enter.

The work was miscellaneous. It ranged from taking a woman to the clinic for a variety of things or bank transactions (an unforeseen revelation of my ignorance), helping out with forms and other administrative work or teaching kids how to make a paper boat. This diversity heightened my experience and I ended up learning lots of things (like bank transactions). I once took this woman, Renuka, for sonography. It started out awkwardly, since she hardly knew any Hindi and I’m genuinely ashamed of how my Hindi sounds. My conversing cues had abandoned me and a long walk stretched ahead. We walked silently, nearing a group of giggling women with undersized, pink gowns accosting aloof-looking men. It felt like a movie. Subconsciously, I quickened my pace, only to look around and see Renuka chattering with these women. I cautiously retraced my steps. Should I look at them? And smile? Or stand a bit apart? Just join in? I didn’t even speak Kannada. Finally, we reached the clinic. All I knew was that she was from Karnataka and had been in the business since nine years.  It was only after being the mediator between the doctor’s questions and her answers did a chill run down my spine. Renuka was twenty, with a six year old son and a past of five abortions. Felt like a nasty slap. I recalled stupidly my irritation the last night over making chapatis. It felt so insignificant. Equal time spent on earth and how contrasting a destiny.

Thinking of such incidents triggers a part of me that relishes talking about “those Saheli days”. We were once to admit a woman to Sassoon Hospital for some appendicitis issues. Little did we know that we were unsuspectingly entering a nightmare; in the superlative. My first impression of Sassoon was of a railway station with railways replaced by ambulances and stretchers. The gigantic digital clock, huge cylindrical pillars, sleeping people scattered across the floor and a strong stench of urine, gutkha, sweat, alcohol, spirit and any other nausea inducing smell possible. Patients with a chopped limb or a twisted foot or a partially smashed skull lay writhing on dirty, stained beds. Blood covered cotton balls flew around like dandelions, only the meadow here resembled a battlefield. The doctor called his interns “interns” while wheeled beds with shrunken old women were tossed in and out of elevators.

 We rushed around getting the woman’s tests done and convincing the doctor to admit her only to be told at the end of four traumatic hours that she was probably just pregnant and had been lying the whole time. The only thing that stopped me from smashing a skull then was that I’d already seen one. In this exasperating moment I wondered, if at times, we were spoon feeding these women. I looked around at the people who came here, mostly illiterate, confused but they found a way, right? Did these women really need us volunteers to hold their hand and take them everywhere? What stopped their want for independence? Or was that a completely alien idea for them, considering most of them have never left their brothel? We requested the woman’s companion to go collect the reports if we told her where and how but she vehemently rejected the idea which shocked me momentarily. I don’t know if one can blame them for this fear of being in the public. They live a life behind the curtains and it must be daunting to suddenly shed them off and run into the light. In fact, when we went right inside the brothels on field visits, most women wished they could change their address for ration cards.

Like anyone else, these women yearn for social approval and equality. They know and have accepted what is thought about them, but it is we who fuel the stigmatization. So many people became uneasy when I told them where I worked. A girl I know started crying when we were simply walking in the Budhwar peth area, not remotely close to the lanes. People cringe at the thought of walking through “the area”; parents advice their children to take alternate routes. It’s like a mental void, flourishing but never spoken about. It also is some women (most of them, breathtakingly beautiful) making a living. The brothels usually house their families and every day, the women go downstairs for work. They are proud mothers and often support a drunkard partner. They invite you warmly into their tiny homes for tea and show you their daughter’s school work. They sit together watching TV and wisecrack-ing. They try to talk to you in broken English and share wafers. They remember you the next time you come and grin from their perch at the brothel door. They also sometimes, meet a man, fall in love, pay out all debts to the Madam with his help and shift into a new flat and sometimes a new city to start afresh (I met two such cases. It was magical).

Saheli doesn’t promise a rescue from the grim world they live in. It’s dark, dreary and almost completely deprived of hope. Saheli polishes this hope, brings it to a shine, lights up the shadows and then makes sure it lingers. It’s as simple as that. I thank this wonderful place for letting me be a part of it and drastically increasing my appreciation for pretty much, everything.