By Sarah Jacob
“Let’s settle for Rs 5,000 – na tera na mera.” The mustached man shook hands with another man. He had just sold a minor girl into sex work. He felt proud of his bargaining skills. He’d been making enough profit to help him live a life of luxury. There was no dearth of young girls in the market. They were easier to deceive. The demand for young girls was higher than before.
Meanwhile, the little girl didn’t know what was in store for her. She had agreed to travel to Mumbai, leaving her village, because she wanted a job that would pay her. She could then help her farmer parents. She agreed to stop her studies. She would definitely miss her friends. But, family commitments meant she would have to sacrifice a lot. However, if that meant better income in the family, she was up for it.
But, like the other girls sold into sex work, she had no idea what she would have to endure. Naïve and young, she entered the Maximum City with twinkling eyes. Her desire of helping her parents only grew stronger. Staying in a shanty in Dharavi, one sweaty morning, struck her like a bolt from the blue. She overheard her ‘uncle’ talk over the phone about money. At first, she thought he meant her salary. ‘5,000 is good. Ma-babu will be happy. I can also have money to myself,’ she thought. A few hours later, a stranger entered her room, held her hands, gagged her mouth and dragged her to his car. She thought her ‘uncle’ would help her. But he stood there, unfazed. He looked away from her, ignoring her muzzled scream for help.
Shweta did not lose hope. She knew her ‘uncle’ would come to rescue her. But, nothing felt right suddenly. She was taken to a dingy room which smelled of smoke overpowered by the scent of jasmine. The windows were tightly closed with bed-sheets draped all over them. The blue walls had brown stains all over them, as if countless people had used the room and never cared to clean them. A woman wearing a bright yellow saree and heavy makeup, was waiting for her.
She took Shweta to the bed in the corner of the room and gave her a set of salwar-kameez, asking her to wear it. The aunty applied lipstick and other makeup for her – things she had never seen. But what followed was the turn of events she never expected. A slew of dirty men, one after the other, entered the room and took turns to rape her. She was not allowed to scream, not out of horror nor the cigarette stubs that hurt her body. The men were cruel monsters, who ignored her cries. The aunty, busy counting wads of cash, threatened her to be quiet. Her meals were timed and less. She was asked to rush, because business needed to be finished.
This imagery may be graphically disturbing. It hurt me as I wrote this. But even as you read this, a minor girl has been sold into commercial sex work somewhere. Another minor girl is getting raped in a brothel. Another minor is being beaten up for not meeting the needs of her customer. Another is screaming in pain.
There are enough statistics about sex trafficking in the public domain. The government and civil society organisations have been working together to eradicate this social evil and crime. But nothing is enough to compensate for the gruesome situation these minors go through. Nothing means nothing! But I can do nothing, since it isn’t my fault, you might think. You and I allow this business to thrive. Commercial sexual exploitation is growing. It continues to be a pleasure for some, pain for many.
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