Daughters of the Red Light: Coming of Age in Mumbai's Brothels by Shanoor Seervai Read Free Book Online Page B

didn’t know why her mother came and took her away. “Maybe my sister told her I was crying a lot. I never told my sister, but maybe he had done it to her, too.”
    Stories of abuse come as a shock each time. No matter how many I hear, I have to control my revulsion and remain a calm but empathetic listener.
    Like their mothers, the daughters of sex workers can become inured to sexual abuse. But from speaking to the Kranti girls, I realize that while the mothers have their colleagues for solidarity, the daughters suffer in silence. They grow up to believe the abuse is their fault, and that it destines them to the same dirty work their mothers do.
    For Saira, the memory makes her angry, makes her hate herself and everyone else. Her entire body tenses when she speaks about her father. She still wakes up each morning at the same time, 4 a.m., and her thoughts churn. For years, she tries to harbor it all inside, though the anger slips out in lies, screams, belligerence. When life feels unbearable, Saira cuts her wrists and lets the pain bleed out of her body, even if just for a while.
    The first time she moves into Kranti, she despises it so much that she goes back to live with her mother. But the second time she comes to Kranti, her attitude starts to change.
    “I realized that all the other girls were talking about bad things that happened to them, and I wanted to tell someone about my life, too. When I first told Robin, she gave me a big hug and told me I hadn’t done anything wrong.”
    “I think I used to be so angry because I had never told anyone what my father did to me. Now I’ve stopped cutting myself.” Saira shows me a bag of anti-depressants and other medicines. I’m pleased we’ve progressed from monosyllables to this level of openness, but I’m not sure how to respond.
    Later, I ask Robin about how she deals with Saira’s self-inflicted violence, and she says it’s been one of the most difficult issues to work through. “For many of the girls, cutting themselves is a learned behavior. They’ve seen their mothers do it and learned that it’s how to take care of pain. I still get chills when I look at the scars on some of their mothers’ arms.”
    Saira’s relationship with her mother is better, but she still struggles with rage and sometimes wants to go back to cutting herself. Her dream, once she completes high school, is to teach street children and work with women and girls in Kamathipura.
    When I leave Saira that afternoon, I have a bittersweet taste in my mouth. I could tell that healing for her is a daily struggle. She still has a long way to go. Saira’s story isn’t wrapped up and tied with a bow, the way Shweta’s tale sounds to most people. But in many ways, Saira represents what Kranti professes to stand for. It’s not an organization trying to turn the daughters of sex workers into success stories for a glossy brochure. There are different degrees of trauma, and each girl deals with trauma in her own way, even in a loving and nurturing environment.
    And while it’s tempting to write Shweta as a happy ending after her first year at Bard, her story is far more complex.
    *****
    On a rainy Saturday in July, I slip on a pair of waterproof sandals and seal my cell phone in a Ziploc bag. I’m on my way to meet Shweta at Grant Road Station, near Kamathipura.
    When I’d woken up, I looked out my window and texted Shweta, “It is pouring here — not good for a walk.” She called me minutes later to convince me that we should stick to our plan instead of delaying our meeting another week. I relented. If rain didn’t bother Shweta, I couldn’t let it bother me.
    Shweta arrives at the station 20 minutes late with Asmita, her younger sister. She’s dressed in a fitted, bright orange salwaar khameez, bursting with excitement to stroll around her old neighborhood. I’d long since learned the Kranti girls don’t care how I dress, so I am wearing loose batik pants and a T-shirt.
    I share my