During my university days, I often heard about Sonagachi, the largest red-light area in India. People painted vivid pictures in my mind of what a red light area might look like – shady alleyways, narrow and dark lanes tucked away from the main city; a place no one from the urban mainstream would dare to wander. They spoke of women arguing over customers, quarrelling with clients over payment, shouting things like, “If this is all you can pay, why did you even come?” Popular culture reinforced these images, shaping my understanding of what a red-light area "should" look like.
I’m not just talking about films from decades ago; even recent movies and web series continue to portray sex workers in deeply objectifying ways. They are often shown as harsh, rude, and dressed in overly sexualised or provocative clothing, or, on the other end of the spectrum, they are romanticised and glamorised if they are the central character – like Chandramukhi from Devdas, Gangubai from Gangubai Kathiawadi, Begum Jaan from Begum Jaan, or Chameli from Chameli. These characters, though powerful, are portrayed differently from the women we see standing on the streets in real life – and somehow, their pain is made more palatable for viewers.
Recently, I visited Kolkata and had the opportunity to go to Sonagachi. In the blink of an eye, every stereotype I had absorbed over the years was challenged. Sonagachi was bathed in daylight, vibrant, and alive. The brothels were nestled within old architectural structures, vegetable vendors moved about, and the whole area resembled any other urban neighbourhood - with small shops, women haggling with shopkeepers over vegetable prices, children playing, and women drawing water from public taps.
One of the sex workers explained that there are 101 brothels in Sonagachi. Most brothel owners do not live in Kolkata – they reside in Delhi or Mumbai. Each brothel contains 50 to 60 rooms, usually rented out by intermediaries or malkins who, in turn, pay rent to the actual owners. The sex workers then rent these rooms from the intermediaries, giving them a portion of their income in return.
When I visited two or three brothels in the afternoon, the atmosphere was quite different from what I had imagined. Some women were resting, others were watching Netflix or filming reels. Older women were cleaning the corridors, and male cooks were preparing lunch. They also served as helpers, running errands for the women when needed., They asked why I was visiting, and as we parted ways, they smiled and asked whether I liked their place. In that brief interaction, we shared a moment of hope and warmth.
The walls of the brothels seemed to tell stories – some unheard, some buried – but the story I was witnessing was one of resilience. On one of the walls near the entrance, I noticed a sign that read: “Do not take anyone’s photo or video without asking, it is necessary to seek permission.” It struck me deeply. Was this their silent protest against non-consensual sex? Was this their way of asserting the right to bodily autonomy and consent?
One of the sex workers shared something that stayed with me deeply. She said, “Many years ago, these lanes were known as ‘setho ki gali’ (the lanes of wealthy men), but now, we call them ‘sethnio ki gali’ (the lanes of powerful women).” There was pride in her voice, and a quiet, steady resilience in the way she owned her story - the Seths were wealthy because they controlled trade and property, but the Sethanis became powerful by surviving hardship and supporting each other.
They were no longer just surviving – they were dreaming. Dreaming of travelling, of supporting their children through education, and seeing them settled in life. Their hopes were not so different from anyone else’s, and their determination was rooted in dignity.
This blog is not meant to overlook or downplay the struggles that sex workers face – challenges related to health, violence, finances, and systemic discrimination. These are real and experienced across the world. Sex workers are among the most marginalised, often excluded from the most basic human rights.
However, through this reflection, I wish to shed light on the normalcy in their everyday lives. I want to challenge the narrow, stereotypical image of sex workers that dominates popular culture. When we begin to understand that the lives of sex workers are not so different from our own – that they too dream of owning a home, wish for their children to be settled, look forward to new film releases, prepare to shop for Durga Pujo, and worry about what to make for dinner – then perhaps we will start to accept their profession as just another form of livelihood.
And maybe then, we will begin to see them as equals – and see their work with dignity.
