"I Walked Into A Brothel Thinking I Could Help Them... They Ended Up Saving Me Instead..."

The first time I walked into a brothel on GB Road, I thought I was there to do a job. I had my notepad, my questions, my official tag. I was working with NACO at the time, focused on HIV prevention. I thought I was there to ‘sensitize’ the women—to educate them about condoms and clients. What I didn’t expect was to be cracked open. There were about a dozen girls in that room. Some wore spaghetti tops, some sat silent, others distracted. One by one, men walked in and picked who they wanted. I watched one girl hesitate—her face said no—but her body followed orders as the landlord took money and nodded. She left, returned, disposed of something in the dustbin, washed her hands, and quietly sat back in line.

I sat there for hours, stunned. When I returned home that night, I didn’t feel like an officer. I felt like a witness to something nobody ever warned me about. These weren’t nameless “sex workers” on some dusty file. They were girls with stories, women with scars, and children growing up beside broken windows and empty plates. That day, something shifted. The job didn’t fit anymore. The rules didn’t either. I didn’t want to just distribute condoms. I wanted to understand. I wanted to stay.

And so I did. I kept going back—not as a government rep, but just as Geetanjali. And the women noticed. Some of them mocked me, even confronted me. “You ask us how many clients we get. But if we asked you the same, would you answer?” one said. I was stunned into silence. Another time, I broke down after being thrown out of a kotha. As I stood outside, wiping my tears, a woman followed me downstairs and said, “They don’t trust anyone anymore. But I want to learn. Will you teach me how to read a menu?” That was the beginning. She came to my house every day, and I taught her. She taught others. And little by little, what began as a conversation became Kat-Katha.

Over the years, we built many things together—a bridge school for the children of GB Road, so they could have a chance at formal education. Livelihood projects like Harchala and Metri Meals, so women could earn outside the confines of their rooms. And most importantly, Dream Village—a safe home where women who chose to leave the brothels could live, learn, and begin again. It wasn’t easy. We were beaten. Threatened. Called names. But we stayed. Because slowly, things changed. 

One girl who once slept above a bathroom now has her own clean room, a laptop, and dreams of the IAS. Another, once mocked as “mental,” is now leading a kitchen team at Dream Village, proud of the title “leader” for the first time in her life.

Still, it’s never linear. Some women leave and go back. Some leave and stay gone. Some children grow up free, others fall through. But I have come to learn that change isn't a straight road—it’s a spiral. You circle the same pain again and again, but each time with more clarity, more strength. Today, 2,200 women live on GB Road. Many of them were sold as children. Many are mothers now. Their children dream of being doctors, dancers, officers. We do what we can—with outreach, therapy, education, shelter. But this work needs more than belief. It needs support. We need money for rent, for books, for food, for the walls that hold these dreams.