Daughters of the Red Light: Coming of Age in Mumbai's Brothels Read Online Free

making a living and even providing for children despite the complete absence of an education or outside support. That vanishes here. These women are zombies.
    I enter the kitchen along with the home’s counselor. Seven women are stooped over a counter, peeling potatoes and chopping onions. Most days the menu is convalescent rice and lentils, but today they are to have biryani because the home’s superintendent received a promotion.
    “Madam,” one voice pipes up, “How are we going to cook? We need whole masala, powdered masalas… we don’t even have dahi !”
    The counselor assures the women the ingredients will be provided. They slump back onto their stools and fall silent. They know that even their special meal will be bland and bad.
    This contrast is acute. When I visit Kamathipura, the pungent, spicy aromas of Bombay cooking rise above the stench of garbage between 2 and 5 p.m., as the women wake and prepare the day’s first meal. They whip up whatever they fancy and sometimes are treated to the “hotel” food that clients order. “Meat twice a day,” many tell me.
    “Even when I don’t have a lot of money, I need to eat well,” said Rani, a brothel-keeper, as she filled my plate with rice, curry, lentils, and deep-fried pakoras during one interview. It was past 4 p.m. and I didn’t need a second lunch, but Rani was determined I try her cooking. That hospitality is not uncommon. Most of my interviews at the brothels include at least a cup of milky, sweet chai. I once made the mistake of turning down the offer. A moment later a glass bottle of Sprite appeared, which I knew cost five times as much.
    At the shelter, the women long for spice and flavor. They are like prisoners anxiously awaiting their release, which is to be granted after three weeks by law but often takes longer. Many languish for months before they are sent back to their families in the villages, a spectacle that brings shame or worse. If they can’t go home, they are placed in long-term rehabilitation centers. These, run by nonprofits, are a step up from the government facilities, but they are still forced detention for women who have grown accustomed to financial independence.
    At one nonprofit home, I am discouraged from asking the women questions about their past because, I am told, this will require them to relive trauma, adding to their anguish. It’s a reasonable request, but a severe limitation for a reporter. I abide, though, and ask innocuous questions, like, “What makes you happy?”
    This is how my interview begins with Leela, a young, reticent woman who moves as awkwardly as a newborn foal.
    We sit down with the home’s overseer and Leela mutters something about sewing class before whispering, “Can I tell her about the bad things?”
    With a wary acquiescence, the three of us troop into a private room in the back. Leela unravels into such sobs that her body shakes and water streams down her pocked cheeks.
    “My parents beat me a lot even though I went to work in the village and did my best to earn. They didn’t feed me properly, they just abused me. I used to sleep in the jungle on the other side of the road from our house. People used to say, ‘Look at this girl. She doesn’t have parents. She’s no one’s daughter.’ My parents used to feed me like a dog, kick me like a dog. They never loved me. I took the money I’d saved and went to Bangalore, but I couldn’t find work there. I spent six months sleeping at the bus stand. I used to eat the food from the trash can because I had nothing else. I was hungry and thirsty all the time. A man and woman saw me crying there. I told them I wanted to go back to my village in Karnataka. They gave me some water to drink and I became unconscious. By the time we arrived in Bombay, I didn’t know where I was.”
    I try to comfort Leela, but I can’t contain this Pandora’s box I’ve opened. The overseer remains stone-faced.
    So many questions rush into my mind.
    Does Leela