Warning: this is not your typical guidebook-appropriate entry. This is about my first visit to a red light district, more commonly referred to as “the area.” The visit was part of my field work as an intern for an NGO whose mission is to empower women in sex work, to provide healthcare and other social services for women in sex work and to change the attitude of society towards these women. I went into the area with two of my Indian colleagues from the NGO.
As I entered, it appeared to be just another downtrodden corner of a bustling city. There is no sign that says, “Welcome to the Red Light District”. There is no change in the air pressure. It’s just another neighborhood. Walking further into the area, there are a lot of men meandering about. Old men, young men, short men, fat men, attractive men, creepy men. Men of all kinds. Then there are the women. Women in traditional Indian clothing of beautiful patterns and sparkling colors, and other women wearing more western styles like jeans and a tight t-shirt. There are typical businesses along the roads selling various goods.
The brothels sit along the lanes, squeezed together to take advantage of every inch of space. Some of the buildings look like they should have been demolished several years ago, and I prayed they didn’t collapse on top of me. As we got closer, I could see more women in doorways wearing mini-skirts (mini for Indian styles anyways, mostly around the knees) and tight t-shirts or tank tops. The older women mostly wore traditional clothing. Some of them were from other South Asian countries, while the majority of the women were Indian. Mostly older, some my age.
We were greeted at the door and made our way up the extremely narrow, steep staircase with very little lighting. We stopped on one floor to talk to a few of the women. The brothel owner, an older scary-looking Nepalese woman, was lying on the ground in her nightdress applying eye drops and muttering to herself. The room was lined with lockers that doubled as seating and sleeping areas. There were televisions in every room we entered. It helps pass the time, I guess. Some of the girls were hanging out watching T.V., others were applying make-up, playing with their jewelry or sleeping. As we were sitting for a moment, a young man in his mid-20s came upstairs to negotiate a price with one of the girls. I suspected he was a customer but did not put much thought into it at the time. A few minutes later, I was standing by the doorway as a young female sex worker (FSW) came through the door with an older man in his 50s or 60s. She took him by the hand and brought him into the room next door. I had no doubts about it this time. My realization of what was to happen next finally made me feel sick to my stomach. At no other point during my visit did I feel sick or uncomfortable other than being face-to-face with this customer. The women looked at me to gauge whether I could handle this environment. I kept my cool. We continued our visit.
Two more dark, questionable staircases (more like tunnels leading upwards) and we found ourselves on an airy upstairs terrace with a different brothel owner. This one was very nice and happy to talk to me. I’ll refer to her as Owner #2 (O2). She patted the seat next to her and I sat down to chat. She even offered me some cool mango juice. Very refreshing in the afternoon heat. Her story is sad but unfortunately common. A victim of child marriage with her own child by her early teenage years. She’s been a brothel owner for about 15 years, but she has a life outside of the area. Like many brothel owners, she was a FSW prior to her current position.
I asked her how one transitions from a FSW to a brothel owner. Silly question really, because how does anyone get a job promotion? The same way whether it’s in the red light area or on Wall Street. You must be economically beneficial to the business, have good relationships with clients and co-workers, have good leadership qualities, and management skills are a plus.
So, what are the pros and cons of being a brothel owner? It’s all about the power relations. You have a lot more control over your life in this new position, but you also have the economic and legal risks to accompany your new power position. Brothel owners are the first ones to get picked up in a police raid, and if your girl(s) run away before paying off their debts then you’re out a lot of money. There are also the medical costs etc. of keeping the girls. Interestingly, most brothel owners don’t think the extra profit is worth keeping minors because the police do not generally look the other way when minors are involved. However, if you sit down with them and explain that you don’t keep minors in your brothel, they may do their best to avoid raiding your brothel. This conversation may also involve a bit of bribe money exchanging hands.
We concluded our conversation and slurped down the remainder of our mango juice, and said our goodbyes. O2 said she’d come visit me in the U.S. I smiled, conflicted by my feelings towards her role in the sex industry and her cheery demeanor. On our way out, they showed me the “compartments” where “the sex work is done”. I swear, they find the most awkward way of wording things here. I don’t know if it’s the English as a Second Language (ESL) factor or that there’s truly no nice way of putting it, but it never sounds quite right. Anyways, this tiny room had three “compartments” for “the sex work” which were just large enough for one tiny little bed-frame adorned with a dingy old mattress which, if you’re lucky, may also come with a sheet. Possibly even a pillow. The floor and shelves were littered with Kingfisher bottles, making it difficult to disguise the rampant alcoholism in the area.
We headed back downstairs, saying goodbye to our new friends, and we were met with a handful of girls outside the brothel. All of them were very excited to talk to me, to shake my hand, tell me I’m pretty, give me one of their bangles, ask me questions. One of them started yelling at some guys behind us who were staring at me, probably wondering if the foreigner (me) was for sale. Everyone was fascinated by the foreigner. While we were standing chatting, a woman missing all of her fingers shoved her way into our circle to demand money. Beggars really do penetrate every dark little corner of the city.
Next we headed into a one-floor brothel. There were a few women sitting around at the entrance. We said hi, removed our shoes and headed inside. The first room was big enough for a woman to eat her lunch on the floor next to her sleeping grand-child (about 3 years old) and the brothel owner’s raised bed full of all of her belongings. It was blocked off from the rest of the space. There was one girl, about my age, wearing make up, jewelry, a tight but stretchy tank top and jean capris who bounced around excitedly talking to me. I’ll call her Mia. She knew how to say “I want to say hi” and “what is your name?” in English. She led me through the brothel, showing me the various compartments in back. There were about five or six raised compartments like floating solid kennels along the wall. Again, just big enough for a mattress. There was a little space underneath in which one girl was sleeping but there was “plenty” of room for a few more sleepy women. Mia led me back to the front of the brothel where I spoke with an older woman who wanted to know everything about me. I explained I was from America, here to study and she wanted to know why I was there doing the work I was doing. I told her that I want to know their stories, what they want out of life and how I can help them have a better, happier life. It was the simplest, most honest answer I could give without going into all of the details. She seemed extremely content with this answer and proceeded to tell me that anytime I wanted to come to the area, talk to the women and spend time with them, I should let her know and she would help me.
Away from the area, I sat down to scribble everything I could remember from the visit. It wasn’t too much to handle. It wasn’t horrific or traumatic. It just... was. That isn’t to say that it isn’t terrible the way these women and girls are living. It’s terrible, it’s disgusting and it’s horrible to see. But it was manageable. I could handle the stink of sweat and urine and decaying buildings. I could handle the cramped spaces and the scars on Mia’s neck, arms and face. I could handle having a conversation with the brothel owner. The only thing that made me feel sick and jolted me back into my depressing reality was the presence of the customers. Maybe it’s because without them, the picture isn’t complete and I forget about the women’s professions for a moment. And maybe I’m not disturbed by what I saw because I could leave after. Or maybe I just have a stronger stomach than I anticipated. Whatever it is, I’m reassured that I can handle this work. For now, that is. My writing may seem detached but really, I wouldn’t be cut out for this work if I was an emotional wreck after one visit to the area.
Just to reassure you, I’m perfectly safe when I do these visits. I have people with me who know the area well, and who have good relationships with the women and owners. I will always include as few specific details as possible when talking about this sensitive area, and I will never include real names or locations. This is for the safety and respect of the women and girls I interact with. I hope you have found this entry interesting and informative, and I hope you are not too uncomfortable after reading it. It’s not a glamorous subject to discuss, but I feel that it’s important for me to balance out my description of brunches at the Marriott, for example, with some ground-level realities of life in India.
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