Trivandrum- November 2009
Red Light, Green Light:
She tilts her head to the left, and asks me “Oh! So you are the kid who wants to meet Saira amma?” I smile and look at Vivek for an assurance. Before I know it, we were running off with a giant pimp into some black alley in Tampanoor. I walk quick steps to keep pace with the man walking us into the alley. We pass a few men on the way: satisfied customers, judging by their vacant smiles. Definitely stoned and drunk, seemed like they’ve yanked the last drop of fluid in their body, trying to make the best of what they have paid for. One fastens his “nala” with both hands as he steps out of the door adorned with a lace curtain.
Owing to the fact that this was my first ever visit to a brothel and not to forget my meeting with the “Amma” of the area, I was genuinely nervous. We enter a building, climb two flights of steps, pass through a door that opens only when the pimp knocks out a little code, part the curtain of beads, and find ourselves in a room with a shuttered window, dimly lit by “fairy lights” (the string of tiny colourful lights). Reclining against a long, round cushion is a middle-aged woman with finely plucked eyebrows; her fleshy body was well proportioned and voluptuous. She takes a sip from the glass that lay on the table, from the look of it seemed like whisky. With a tiny dip of the chin, she indicates that we sit.
Saira as I found out is in her late 50’s; a former sex worker had been pushed into the trade by a tout (as she calls him). She was a pretty girl, the landlord of her area had once invited her over to his house, and she had refused, so he threatened to kill her father and family. When she went she was raped, he kept making her come to his house and let his sons rape her and sometimes friends too. One of them was from the city; he had gifted her a silver bracelet. She became pregnant shortly after that. The man then brought her to Tiruvananthapuram with a promise that he would marry her. To save herself from the disgrace in the village she came with him. She was later taken to a hakim who ended her pregnancy, she then discovered that she had been sold by the landlord to the man for fifty rupees.
He brought her to Tampanoor and made her have sex with men until he had his fifty rupees. After being told that the villagers would not accept her back as she had lost her honour. Fearing that she would be killed by her brother and her family she decided to stay back. Worked for many years until she was no longer young and had a few steady clients, the man had grown old. He needed her help to run the place. He died and she took charge consequently. There was news that he was poisoned by her.
“It’s a man’s habit, but I love it,” she says, taking a sip from her glass. Her voice is throaty and deep.
A disturbingly young girl with long eyelashes brings in tea. She wears bells on her ankle that chime when she walks, and I find myself hoping that this is the only service she’s made to provide, although I doubt it very much.
Vivek lights a cigarette as the interview continues, and not seeing an ashtray he tips the ash into the palm of his hand. Saira seems a little too well-spoken for an uneducated village girl sounding more like a wayward mallayali educated girl to me and I begin to wonder whether she’s making up her story as she goes on. Occasionally I turn to look through the curtain of beads behind us. The giant pimp observes us closely, his arms crossed in front of him. I don’t see any of Saira’s prostitutes or their clients, but through the walls, I hear sounds which convince me that business is continuing despite our presence.
My intention of visiting the red light area of Trivandrum came after a report which stated that the Kerala government spends the maximum amount from its budget on HIV awareness out of all the other states in the sub-continent. The amount might be as mere as 10 crores but the thought of spending 40% more than most of the states is highly commendable. In a present-day scenario, I wanted to feel the intensity of the penetration of the campaign. The best way was to find out from the areas which are the most sensitive of all the other communities.
It’s easy for most of us to sit there and say “I use a condom, I prevent AIDS,” but for how long. Awareness needs to be high pitched in a country like India where more than 35% of the population is still staggering with illiteracy.
“We ensure that all our girls insist on using condoms to their clients, that’s the least we do, and we even provide condoms which we get from the government agencies,” Saira claims rather very pompously.
I find out later that Tampanoor had already lost 5 women who succumbed to the AIDS virus under Saira’s tenure as the “Amma”. Her eyes dampen when she speaks about the 5 women who lost their lives. She speaks about one of the deceased very fondly. The youngest of the five Gayathri was 25 when she found out that she had a couple of years more to live. Gayathri as Saira puts it was a fighter, a saviour for some. After her diagnosis, she made it a point that the rest of the girls got tested and also insisted their clients used proper protection.
Due to the confidentiality act, I couldn’t get the exact number of HIV positive sex workers in Tampanoor.
A dinner of Kerala fish curry and brown rice awaited us in the next room. Mats laid on the floor around the food in a circle. As everybody gorged on the scrumptious meal laid out in our honour, Saira turned to the painfully young girl and asked her to pass the message to the other girls that she would be walking by their cubicles post-dinner. The fact that she went on these supervisory rounds startled me. I had way too many questions running in my mind; the reason behind their hospitality was one of my questions. I silently sat there refusing to eat, but trying not to be rude I tell them that I am vegetarian. Luckily Vivek consented to eat and by the look of it, he enjoyed it too.
It took me at least half an hour to understand the motive behind Saira’s round. A typical Bollywood film like walk across the quarters of the women who laid themselves bare in order to earn a couple of rupees and satisfy the need of their clients. Mallayali film songs playing in the background from a transistor that sat on the table of every alternate quarter and the only furniture in the quarter apart from the weak foldable camp beds. Some quarters seemed to be occupied and some were empty and the owners or attendees (what they loved being addressed as) were out on the balcony calling out to prospective clients.
The population didn’t look astounding, contrary to what I had heard. Majority of the people seemed like they were from the Southern part of India (but, I was judging them on the basis of skin colour). Saira later tells me that most of the girls are Tamil, Telegu and Mallayali.
“We don’t have the demand for firangi and chapta(referring to the Nepali girls) here. It’s all about bigger boobs and a bigger ass here. May be in Kochi you get the other variety, our people don’t demand much and we don’t charge much either,” says Saira quite boastfully.
Every cubicle we stop at, Saira just had one question, are your stocks of condoms enough? I was appalled by the fact that a woman of such importance for her people would set out to ask such a thing. Of course, I was impressed by whatever little she did in terms of saving her girls from the fatal disease. It also raised another set of questions in my mind: Is she doing it just because we were around? Does she do it every day? I wanted to ask one of the girls there off the record, but with the pimp guarding us it seemed virtually impossible. I pull up my socks and ask Saira if I could speak to one of the girls briefly, to my surprise she agrees. A girl named Shazia stands eagerly scouting for a prospective customer. Saira’s call makes her turn to us and she walks in our direction.
“Oh! Amma does it every day, She personally comes up to us and sorts our problems, she has been our strength and our mother for many years now,” testifies Shazia.
“Young man, I know your inquisitiveness and you don’t seem to believe me, do you?” says Saira laughing to herself. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I’m startled by the anger in her glance.
Vivek nudges me to ask me to make a move out of the brothel when he realizes that the tempers there were soaring a little higher than his expectation. I turn to Saira and thank her profusely for the kind of information and hospitality offered to us. She looked delighted, said we could visit her again and she would want to spend some more time with the two of us. Though Hindi had been the language of communication, at times Vivek pitched in to explain something better to Saira in Mallayali.
“You were of great help, thank you for coming on such short notice,” I tell Vivek knowing how much of moral support he had been throughout the evening.
We leave Tampanoor in Vivek’s old non-air-conditioned Maruti 800. No exchange of words till he drops me at my hotel gate. What I came here for has been achieved partially, what I want to do next is still debating in my mind.
