Voices of women in prostitution
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COMMENTS 
Women of the SANGRAM collective for women in prostitution in Sangli meet regularly to discuss issues and problems. All have stories to tell about their lives and their profession
In the blistering heat of a Sangli morning, the Swaroop Talkies red light area looks no different from the many shanties that live in the shadows of Indian towns. Lopsided corrugated roof dwellings jostle for space along littered gullies.
The women of the SANGRAM collective for women in prostitution are meeting at Ameena Bi’s house. Ameena Bi cannot climb the stairs to sign the register in the room they usually meet in, owing to a recent leg operation. As pigs grunt and fight in the soapy water that flows into rudimentary drainage channels outside the house, the women settle down over a cup of hot tea to recount how SANGRAM has become a fight for a dignified life.
Says Ameena Bi, an articulate gharwali (madam of a brothel): “When Meenaji (Meena Seshu, SANGRAM’s founder) started VAMP (the Veshya AIDS Muqabla Parishad) 12 years ago, I thought she was a policewoman. Neither gharwali nor ladki (woman in prostitution) listened to her. She (pointing to her co-worker Beemo) ran away when she saw her. People even threw stones at her. Only after a sanghatana (group) was formed were we less suspicious. Earlier, we never did anything without dadagiri (hooliganism). We couldn’t sleep without gaalis (swear words). Now if I swear my collective is demeaned.
“Some of us work in the day and some at night. We don’t disturb women during dhandha (business) hours. Now we are well known in the community and the women talk to us when they have half-an-hour free. Only new girls are difficult. We have to explain to them. It is the itinerant sex workers who are difficult to reach. They live in neighbouring villages or costly rented accommodation in the good gullies (Rs 300-Rs 400 rent per month) and come to work mainly on Saturday when the large weekly market is on. There is a lot of business then. Otherwise they pretend they are not in the dhandha. Because they have no fixed location, we have to scout for them,” says Margava, a SANGRAM outreach worker.
Ameena continues: “There were other problems in enforcing the use of condoms, initially. We didn’t know whether the women were telling the truth. How many customers were they handling with and without condoms? This is an intensely competitive business. Also, in the beginning, enforcing condom usage could mean the end of business. It was either death by AIDS or hunger -- you can live longer with AIDS. Naturally, they lied. Now we have buckets in which used condoms are collected. They are burnt; otherwise our children play with them thinking they are balloons. Now, women are friendly. They come and tell us their problems. We are saving somebody’s life. That is bigger than a salary.”
She adds: “The media makes it all look very glamorous. We are heroines or tortured women. Real life is less colourful. Some of us come from devadasi communities. The system is gone but parents know -- women still come into the dhandha. What is happening to ‘honourable’ women in so-called society? Fathers-in-law harass their daughters-in-law, mothers-in-law torture them, men desert them. What will they do? There is no zabardasti (force/compulsion) here. Women come of their own will. We do hear of women being kidnapped and trafficked, of pimps, cigarette butts and brutal treatment. This may be true in big cities like Mumbai or Osmanabad. I don’t know. And look at what they are showing in the pictures -- they strip, they sing vulgar songs, their dances are vulgar, women are treated like ‘things’. And they say we are in the business of selling sex!”
Margava says: “We don’t mind not having the father’s name. The mother is everything. We have her name instead. Our collective is now running classes for our children so they are away from home during dhandha. They are learning well. Why should we only think of what they will do after we die? We are not educated. We have to ask people and find out which bus to take. Not our children. That is what studies are for. Of course, we would also like our children to become collectors and advocates. But we don’t know their destiny.”
Chandrava, also a peer with SANGRAM, says: “We are also workers earning for our families. We used to be scared of the police. Now we know the law and we know our rights. Now they give us chairs to sit on. We are honest workers. Why should we be scared? I don’t feel any self-pity. I am good. What have I got to do with society? Am I supposed to lick it? VAMP has taught us to take on society and its antagonism. They say we are prostitutes. How can we be good? I say the same thing. I swear at society. I can’t go anywhere. They won’t accept me because I am a dandhewali and I had four men today. The man who has his nose stuck in the air, who points fingers at us, would have come here for his recreation.”
Ameena Bi complains: “HIV patients are not taken by doctors. The PHCs (primary health centres) close early. Our work schedule is different. When can we see the doctor? So we went on morchas. Now they keep the PHCs open upto 12 o’clock. I am my own master. I take rest when I want. Work is available throughout the year. We don’t count the number of customers. Sundays are peaceful but Saturdays bring a lot of work. On holidays, during Ganapati, Id, Diwali, they come in greater numbers. In this community alone, an average of 6,000 condoms is used in eight days. If I have 10 girls and one of them is not successful, I take care of her -- food, make-up, medical, everything.”
Kasturi Shinde, who also works in the Swaroop Talkies area, says: “Earlier, we were all scared of the police. They would round us up just to meet targets and tally numbers. They would demand bribes and free sex. We would get beaten up and bear it. Not anymore. I know what the law is. I should not solicit publicly, but if a customer comes to my house and I do business there it is not illegal. Earlier we used to lock our doors and sit inside scared when the police raids took place. Not anymore. This is my doorstep. I am not soliciting. How can you arrest me? Now I know how to talk to the police. If you talk like this, this happens. If you talk like that, that happens. Now I can say anything I want. They know I can stir up trouble. I ask them: Are you going to leave them or not? I bribe coolly. If that doesn’t work we -- five hundred of us -- will do a dharna. Now they listen. They serve us chai and cold drinks. We even help them catch thieves. Now we know the police well. I know the numbers of all the police stations. They advise us. There is no fear. They come looking for us. We talk. I am famous!”
She recalls: “Once a havaldar (policeman) in plain clothes started to make trouble. We were doing our outreach work on the streets. He started threatening us. What work? Which organisation? Where is your ID card? What is your name? Why here? He took our cards and pocketed them. I told him I was going to catch him. He said, go ahead. He was insolent. I asked him who he was. Which police station? He said Islampur. I took his buckle number. I called his superiors. He immediately turned around. He said I should take his chappal and beat him. I could have taken him by his shirt collar. Not letting me do my outreach work? I’ll show him. Everybody in the area was watching the circus.”
Chanda, in her mid-30s, says quietly: “Sometimes a drunken man will do stupid things -- bring out a dagger even though he doesn’t know how to use it. A hundred of us get together and attack him with chilli powder. When we go on the offensive, there is no blood -- just knees, testicles. It is self-defence. See this lathi (shows a four-foot-long bamboo stick) -- we have one in each house. They can’t arrest a hundred of us for one murder, can they?”
She adds: “We are one. No class or caste divisions. No distinctions or discrimination. A girl chooses her own ‘malak’ (lover). He buys her sarees and sweaters and takes her to the pictures. Trouble does happen. Men turn up in a stupor and harass a girl. We have a rule -- if she does not want to do dhandha with him, he will have to go. There are no two ways about it. Is she his wife for him to push her around?”
Surekha Chandrakant recounts:
“I was in a government hostel and studying at the Rani Saraswathi Kanya Shala here in Sangli. My family is poor and this (the hostel) was cheaper, though they were here in Sangli only. As I grew up, I met a driver. He was nice to me. He said he would marry me. He even came home to ask my brother. But after my tenth standard exam, he took me by force to his house in Indira Nagar. His wife would beat me. She fed me only when he was there; otherwise I starved. I had no change of clothes. How long could I live in my dirty clothes? I used to steal food and sit in the toilet and eat it. I ran away.
“I started working in a hotel. I found a place on rent. But it was late-night work. The area was bad and I was sexually harassed when it was time to go home. I gave up the job. Then I became a domestic help in a businessman’s house. They would give me chai and ask me to drink it sitting near the toilet. Why? Am I a dog? I told him to give me my money and I left.
“Then I worked with a building contractor. He behaved badly with me. He would talk dirty. After a full day’s work on a construction site, for Rs 13 a day, I had to lift my saree whenever he asked me to.
“Then one man told me that he would give me Rs 100 if I followed him. I followed him. I did dhandha and I said to myself -- instead of being harassed everyday for Rs 13, let me do it as work and earn Rs 100 in one day. This is more self-respecting.
“I am back in touch with my parents now though I did not go back to them. We are upper caste dhangars (shepherd community). Why spoil their name? I send them money though. I am self-sufficient. I have a ‘malak’. His only condition is that I do not do dhandha after five in the evening. He takes care of me. He does not go to other women. We live like husband and wife, with loyalty and faith. Of course, the new generation of ‘malaks’ come here to eat but go elsewhere for sex. But we women keep our earnings. I have a son in high school. I hope he will get a job in the sanstha (the organisation SANGRAM).
“They (clients) come with love, with no love or acting like it is love. My first lover found me here and he became a client. He still comes back. I charge him ten or 20 rupees and let him go. Each of us has a story to tell. Your book will not be enough for all our stories.”
InfoChange News & Features, May 2004