The Red Light

The streets of Delhi are like a fire hose to the senses. The cacophony of horns and press of auto rickshaws and trucks competes with the force of humanity to create a scene that is both intoxicating and overwhelming to my American sensibility. Colorful saris, garbage, cows, and the smell of gasoline combine with the heat of the day to cause an almost lightheaded sensation. Holding the hand closest to traffic out around hip level to signal that we needed the cars to stop, we crossed the street and entered Delhi’s red light district, three white women in a sea of the tanned faces of mostly men.

The GB Road in Delhi does not, at first glance, look like a place one would go to hire a prostitute. The streets are wider than they seem, as they are congested with pedestrians and traffic. The ground floors of each building are hardware stores. Men weave through outside displays of wares, while women sit and wait for customers.

They are not overly painted up. They may have on a little bit more makeup than the average woman, but there is not much about them to suggest that they are prostitutes. They look tired and worldly, and very hot, as it is a sweltering day. Their faces light up as they see us approaching. They know one of us. She lives here. She comes here regularly to talk with the women. They greet her enthusiastically, and she returns the greeting. In my limited Hindi, I catch a few words. “Were they asking you about marriage?” I ask. She nods. “They want me to get married so they can come to my wedding.”

“Would you invite them?”

I don’t remember her answer. But I’d like to think she would.

Down the road a ways, one of the prostitutes invited us upstairs. We carefully navigated a steep, narrow, dark stairway. At the top, we cautiously picked around two sweating workmen on a ladder struggling with some wires and a light fixture. The prostitutes directed us to the left. The room we entered was well lit and covered in blue tiles. There were several women in the room, sitting or lying on the floor. One woman was getting her hair dyed. Another was on a smartphone. I recognized the sounds of the game she was playing: Candy Crush Saga. After a while, the phone was passed on to another girl. I recognized the sounds of her game as well: Subway Surfers.

We sat on a bench while my friend chatted with the girls in Hindi. A woman behind us did laundry, near a young boy who was playing on the balcony. Johns came up the narrow staircase and went down the hall to the right. They didn’t tend to look to the left, at us. I wondered what they would think if they did.

The prostitutes were worried because there had been more raids on the street. Though these were primarily on brothels with underage girls, our friend explained, they were worried that this would affect their business.

We awkwardly sat for a while with the women, sweating in the stifling heat. The situation was surreal. We were in a brothel, in the middle of Delhi, with prostitutes, yet there was something so ordinary about it. This was life. The women interacted the same way every other group of women interacted. They were worried about job security. They complained of aches and pains. And they teased the our friend about marriage.

Finally we said our goodbyes and made our way down the stairs and back onto the street. As I looked down the street at the seemingly countless brothels, I felt sad and a bit helpless. I said a silent prayer for the freedom of all the people here as we melted into the crush of humanity on GB Road.