Showing posts with label Agra. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Agra. Show all posts

Monday, 31 July 2017

Childhood for sale

In Agra, girls who are barely pre-pubescent are groomed for sex work and trafficked by their families. A ground report on the eve of the World Day against Trafficking in Persons

At 10 on a hot July morning, a 15-year-old with close-cropped hair walked into one of Agra’s police stations and reported her mother. “She’s trying to sell me,” she said in a small but defiant voice, to the first officer she met. The police didn’t take her too seriously. Children tend to lie and exaggerate, especially when they crave attention, they reasoned.

Sneha’s* mother Sona* is a sex worker. “She would go to hotels to give maalish (massage),” Sneha tells me, recounting how her mother would wait for a call from the dalal (tout) before venturing out at night with a gang of women. She usually returned in the wee hours. Half of what she earned went to the dalal. After separating from Sneha’s father some years ago, Sona married twice again and currently lives with her third husband, Ravi*. A heavy drinker and herself a victim of physical abuse, she routinely abused her daughter. “Three months ago, my mom introduced me to a man she called her fourth husband. But then Ravi called and apologised for beating us up, so we went back to him,” says Sneha, her brown eyes lowered and staring intently at her red kurta, as if to make sense of its pattern of wild flowers.

To escape the abuse, last October she decided to go live with her father and his second wife in Delhi. “We arrived on Dhanteras. After six months with my father, I was made to meet a 35-year-old man, who was introduced as my soon-to-be-husband,” the child says. Her father had been promised a four-wheeler and ₹2 lakh in return. Seeing no other way out, one muggy April night she escaped from her father’s house and boarded a bus to Nizamuddin Station. Squeezing her way into a sweaty unreserved compartment, she finally arrived at Agra Cant station and called her mother. “Where do I come?” Sneha asked.

Having no fixed place as home, her mother worked at different kothis (homes) each month, and Sneha was often left behind to live there and do domestic chores such as clean and mop the floors.

After being moved around for three months, living first with a distant relative, then Ravi and later Sona’s ‘fourth husband’, Sneha was told about 15 days ago that she was soon to be married. “Is it the same man I ran away from?” she asked, only to be told, “No, it’s someone else. You’ll have fun. It’s just that you can never come back to see me.” Recalling some talk she had overhead earlier, about a four-wheeler and some money changing hands, Sneha’s suspicions were aroused. “Are you selling me?” she confronted her mother.

Finally, when she was beaten to a pulp over some runny dal she had prepared, she fled home on the spur of the moment. She chopped her long hair into a crew cut to rid it of lice. That’s when she gathered the guts to walk into a police station and seek help. This was her last wild card.

By the time Neeraj Chouhan, an activist with the NGO Chetna which is in charge of implementing the Central Government’s Childline helpline across Agra, spotted Sneha at the police station, the police had already called the child’s mother. “When home becomes a place that harms, not protects, how can we send her back home?” Chouhan argued with the police. After much persuasion they agreed for a medical examination and for the case to be presented to the Child Welfare Committee. “I’ll go anywhere and do anything you ask me to. But I will not go back home,” Sneha said for the umpteenth time that day, leaning into my recorder for all of us to hear.

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When parents turn perpetrators In the Bedia community the birth of a girl child is celebrated for the income she will bring home from the sex work she will be made to do (representational photo)

Agra’s infamy
Unicef defines child trafficking as an instance where any person under 18 is recruited, transported, transferred, harboured or received for the purpose of exploitation, either within or outside a country.

There were 9,104 trafficked children in 2015, 27 per cent more than in 2014, according to the National Crime Records Bureau's (NCRB) 2016 report; the highest number of trafficking cases was reported in West Bengal, Rajasthan and Maharashtra. A State like Uttar Pradesh (UP), where trafficking is steadily rising in cities such as Agra and Lucknow, is also infamous for crimes against women, accounting for 10.9 per cent of all cases reported countrywide.

“Agra has been a prostitution hub since medieval times,” says the district protection officer Luvkush Bhargav. While sex trade is legal in designated spots in the city such as Kashmiri Bazaar, it is illegal to run it out of homes or hotels. “We do regular raids at hotels and other unauthorised centres that function covertly as massage parlours,” he says.

But, clearly, the criminals are coming up with newer methods to outwit the law enforcers.

In a case of abject administrative neglect in June this year, 48 girls from Agra’s Nari Niketan (women’s shelter home) who were rescued from brothels, were released back to their traffickers. Pretending to be relatives, the traffickers managed to convince the girls, many of them minors, to return to them.

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Grooming them young
Dolly’s* musty home, located among the brick-walled alleys of Agra’s Khurd Basai, has the pungent sting of freshly cut onions. At 1 pm, a group of girls aged anywhere from 15 to 25 are getting dolled up in the opposite room, eyeing us suspiciously. Dolly’s 17-year-old niece Pooja*, who lived with her in the joint family, went missing last month. But her family didn’t file an FIR. She was rescued from a dance bar in Mumbai by Prerna, a sister NGO of Chetna.

Dolly and Pooja belong to the Bedia tribal community, which has traditionally depended on sex work for a living. “It is our clan’s tradition that we have been doing for centuries. Why should we give it up?” asks Dolly. The community is spread across Rajasthan and UP. It celebrates the birth of a girl child, as she will soon become a bread-winner. The men — fathers, brothers and sons — are destined to be their pimps. Some of these men marry outside the community and force the women into sex work, making it another form of trafficking.

The girls are groomed for sex work when they are barely pre-pubescents. They are made to watch pornography by their mothers and aunts, and their bodies are injected with the growth hormone oxytocin (freely available in drugstores) to ensure they develop an adult physique faster than normal. Girls in their early teens look like 18-year-olds. Sexually-transmitted diseases are rampant and they are all too often victims of sexual violence.

“We send our girls far away from us, so that they can practise prostitution without a feeling of shame and also stay away from family members who might take advantage of them,” says Dolly.

The Bedias have one rule. The girls will be given the choice to either marry and settle down, or become sex workers and never marry. “Although it sounds democratic, the truth is they are too young to be making that choice. By then they have been deprived of schooling and brainwashed to believe that this can be their only way of life,” says Narendra Parihar, Childline coordinator for Agra.

There have also been instances of Bedia sex workers eventually falling in love and marrying, as Pooja’s sister Poonam* did. A mother of two, she is currently in a Mumbai prison for running an unauthorised prostitution racket.

Pooja is at a shelter home in the city. The NGOs helping her are faced with a dilemma: Pooja was rescued only because she was a minor, not because she wanted to opt out. If they send her back home, as her family desires, she will go right back to sex work.

For Parihar, the hardest part is walking away knowing that nothing can be done to help the Bedia girls unless there is a willingness on their part to opt out. The task is made all the more harder when it’s the parents who are the pimps and society fails to give them a second chance.

Most of the Bedia children do not go to school. The ones who do, register themselves with Thakur as their last name, to avoid the discrimination that comes with their own caste name.

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Trapped The Ministry of Women and Child Development’s Childline helpline gets two to three calls a month from children who want to break free from child marriage or prostitution enforced by their own parents

Carefully set traps
Back in Dolly’s house, the girls in the opposite room continue to appear guarded. Nisha* and Palak* have come from Rajasthan to work as “parlour girls”. They live in the room “on rent”. They say their ages are 22 and 25, respectively, but they look barely 16 and 18. When asked what work they do, they indistinctly mutter the words “maalish” and “henna”. They earn ₹500-1,000 a day. Would they be interested in learning some other professional skill for a living? Nisha looks up, momentarily interested. Palak shakes her head. Do they miss their parents? Nisha’s eyes fill up and there is a long silence. “I will see them for Rakhi, I think” she finally says, softly. Dolly comes in and they immediately freeze.

“Sometimes all the signs are telling, but we need clinching evidence to get the police to back us up when we do a raid,” says Parihar. “Each month we get two or three calls from children who believe they have been violated in cases of either child marriage or trafficking. Two years ago we never heard about these cases. Today the kids reach out,” he adds.

“We have no dreams,” says Ram*, a 60-year-old Bedia in rural Shamshabad who is a father of four. The tiny two-bigha patch he owns is barely enough to feed his family. The family cannot even afford three square meals a day. Both his daughters are in Mumbai. One of them is married and visits him once a year with her husband and child. She sends him money regularly, although the family insists it is not earnings from sex work. The second daughter works in a dance bar. The last they saw of her was when she left the village 10 years ago, when she was still in Std VI. “Some years ago we spoke on the phone. I asked her to tell me her whereabouts. I told her I could come get her. But she refused and then stopped calling me,” says Leela*, Ram’s wife.

Parihar points out that many of the girls continue in this line of work of their own volition. “It’s a lifestyle they get used to. To wear expensive things and earn this much at such a young age. They think their job is only a small price to pay to lead the good life.”

At the district hospital, Sneha sips on a Frooti while mounting a scooter, sandwiched safely between Chauhan and a woman constable. She waves as they zip out of the gate and flashes a broad smile. In her eyes there is a glimmer of hope and the spunk to dream.

*As this article goes to print, a child welfare committee has allotted Sneha shelter in the government-run Rajkiya Balika Griha in Kanpur. As the case is still under investigation, she will live there and learn a vocational skill to make her employable when she turns 18 and a court approves her release.

(*Names have been changed to protect identities)

(Source: The Hindu BL)

Monday, 9 December 2013

Book Review: Karma gone bad?

Karma Gone Bad by Jenny Feldon

The world comes crumbling down when a New Yorker is forced to leave the country to settle down in the land of Karma, India. Blogger Jenny Feldon chronicles her not so-easy two-year journey in her memoir Karma Gone Bad: How I Learned to Love Mangos, Bollywood and Water Buffalo (November 5, 2013).     
The memoir opens with the much pampered princess packing her designer dresses, shoes and sling bags, as her husband Jay is transferred to India on a two-year contract. She dreams of making friends with glamorous expats, seeing lengths and breadths of India, practicing yoga at the land of yoga. However, it doesn’t take much time for the newly married 27-year-old Jenny to realize that the country she had imagined, read and watched in movies was far from reality.  

The moment she arrives in Hyderabad, which she calls ‘Bad, to emphasize her bad experiences in the capital city of southern state Andhra Pradesh, she feels stuck. She not only misses her beauty sessions in New York, but also Starbucks, latest fashion trends, friends and colleagues who supported her back home. Adding to the woes, her husband Jay falls sick within two days of their arrival and she suffers food poisoning several times, unable to manage with the “spicy” food.

She finds mistakes and flaws in everybody and everything. She feels lonely in a country which is one of the most densely populated nations in the world and feels like losing her identity, as people address her “Madam” and not Jenny. “Here, I was no one. A parasitic extension of my husband, a hanger-on in the world of corporate transplants,” she laments and blames India even for that. She fails to become “the best Indian housewife”.
Jenny Feldon
She sees how life in India cannot become “a travelogue”, full of photographs and anecdotes about her exotic new life. Unable to cope with situations – in fact, Jenny’s little white Maltese, Tucker, copes better than her – she abruptly leaves her husband and India within six months. Jay, who arrives in the U.S. for Thanksgiving, discusses divorce and she sees her mistake. She returns to India, but with a change in the attitude and outlook.

She realizes what the universe had been trying to tell her all along: India didn’t need to change. Instead it is she who needs to change and promptly does it. She stops blaming India, keeps her unrealistic expectations to the side and accepts the country as it is: “With my new plan in place to embrace all (or at least some) things Indian, Bollywood didn’t seem like a bad place to start.” She enjoys the remaining days of her stay in India, making friends with people, visiting local market, cooking and eating Indian food. Her visit to Taj Mahal in Agra, her interest in learning Hindi and practicing yoga brings the circle of karma to the full. At last, she successfully finds beauty in the chaos in the land of karma.

Readers – if not all, at least in India – will hate the narrator for the first three-fourth of the book. Her never ending childish tantrums, complaints and insecurities are spread all over the first 75% of the book. One wonders why and how can she complain so much – whether it is for not getting a latte, or for “brown people” staring at her, or for people not standing in the queue like Americans, or fearing for the safety of her dog!

Though she makes an effort to enjoy her stay by embracing the Indian culture and befriending Indians in the last quarter of the book, her initial complaints are too strong to forget and remain in the back of mind. She looks dismissing the Indian culture, not because India is poor or less than any other country, but because it is not like other western countries and the people are not like Americans!   

This sets an example for those who would like to know what happens if a person with preconceived notion goes to live in a foreign country. There are several references to India as a “third world”, which is quite surprising given the fact that it is one of the competing economies and has been outsourcing its talent across the world, mainly to the U.S., over the past several years.

The memoir has some instances where readers wonder at the (poor) general knowledge of the author who keeps wondering often at small things. When she wonders, “Shouldn’t there be light? Buildings? No city I’d ever seen looked so dark from the sky,” we feel like showing her the satellite image of India on Diwali night released by NASA last year.

When driver Venkat Reddy proudly tells her that he has brought a “foreign car”, Hyundai, to take them, it sounds as exaggerated as when she exclaims that the steering wheel on the right-hand side “made the car seem cartoonish” as if she were “on a ride at Disneyland”! We feel like reminding her that not just India, there are other 74 other countries, including the United Kingdom, which have the steering wheel on the right-hand side and drive on the left side of the road.   

What more, she sees a buffalo on the street and confuses it with a cow! We can’t blame her for not watching National Geographic or Discovery or Animal Planet, because later at some point of time she mentions that she has seen buffaloes in zoos. She offends Indian readers when she wants the “puja” (prayer) room for her Maltese.

The woman who lived in the US by Zagat and not by Lonely Planet, suffers food poisoning time and again, she buys expired imported canned food and depends on takeaway pizzas, but dares not to cook with whatever is available; she doesn’t wash the clothes for the first six weeks because the house does not have a washing machine, she doesn’t even get a faintest idea of buying a washing machine; she can’t drink coffee because she can’t get a latte and she doesn’t think of purchasing a coffeemaker either; she worries about charcoal pressed dresses, but not think of buying a iron and press her clothes; she worries about her manicure, but never tries to do it by herself; she looks for a yoga studio, but never tries practicing at home.

Her woes never end and she fails to open her eyes even when an Australian tourist tells her to learn the language to know the place and the people, as “the words come only when you teach yourself new ways to think about them”. Instead of sympathizing with the author, Indian readers get annoyed at her tantrums.

Things become easy when she gets the real meaning of “When in Rome, do as the Romans do!” After all, her “life in India was a big burnt, mishappen cookie – delicious in spite of its imperfections”. Maybe she could have narrated more on the issues like buffaloes, mangoes, Bollywood, electricity, rainfall, traffic and others after her “enlightenment”.  

As one can hate and love India at the same time, the author has done both – hated before her “enlightenment” and loved and respected after that. The narration is hilarious and honest. It gives a lesson as to what to expect in a foreign country and to learn to enjoy life’s smallest moments, be it “eating mangoes” or listening to “Bollywood songs”. 

Note: Read the original review in Kannada published in Khushi, Kannada Prabha on Dec. 08, 2013, here...