Survival

Nidhisha Korishettar

“I am a soul on fire, a warrior at peace, and a burning light that won’t fade away.”

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Survival

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To all the women out there who are stronger than the demons around them..

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“When people tell me that women choose this life, I can’t help but laugh. Do they know how many women like me have tried to escape, but have been beaten black and blue when they are caught? To the men who buy us, we are like meat. To everybody else in society, we simply do not exist.” ~ Ayesha

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The radio was blaring, I walked into the kitchen to see my Dida cooking Bhuna Khichuri yet again. Ever since ma and pa died we haven’t had a decent meal. We can’t afford meat and rice is the only thing that is the least expensive. Dida does everything to keep my belly full. We still do get money from her pension but it’s never enough. The last days of the month are very difficult to get through, sometimes we never even have food to eat. I place the rice in the plates and head over to our tiny dining table. I scoop the rice and place it into my mouth and a loud crash makes me drop my spoon. I can hear sirens outside my window, the police are here..

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I wake up from my dream, the same dream I’ve dreamed since the day I landed in this hell hole. It’s either this dream or a dreamless sleep. The sounds of the sirens are getting louder. My head’s pounding, I turn to my side to see a mop of black hair. Who is this? I don’t remember my client sleeping on the same bed as mine. I never let anyone sleep in, ever. As soon as they’re done the pimps kick them out. I’m trying not to panic, a panic attack is the worst possible thing that could happen now. I breathe harder to lower my increasing heart rate. It is disgusting as it is that I’m forced to sell my body and now I’ve shared my bed too. I get out of bed, quickly dress myself and rush out to see what all the commotion is about. As soon as I step outside I feel someone yank me by my arm and drags me down the stairs. The sudden jerk causes a panic attack and I black out..

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They told me that I was at a rehabilitation center and that I’m safe now. It took a lot of time for them to convince me that I didn’t have to lead that life anymore. That I could start over however I wanted too. I could even complete my education. I only believed them when I saw my friends safe and happy. Dr.Sara Comes in everyday to get me to tell her about myself. I can’t open to people. I’ve learnt the hard way that telling someone your weaknesses can cause them to use it against you. She finally managed to get me to open up. So I told her what she wanted to know, I told her everything and in the process I didn’t realize how much it was helping me. I was finally trusting again.

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I was 14 years old. I was eating lunch with Dida when I heard someone knock the door. I got up and opened it to see a man with a huge knife barge in through the door and hurl the knife at Dida. I heard someone scream, maybe it was me? I don’t remember. I saw my poor Dida’s lifeless body on the ground with blood oozing out of her body. The man came up to me and wrapped his big meaty arms around me and looked at me hungrily. I kicked and screamed and even tried biting him but all it did was make him laugh louder, that sadist. That night he destroyed me, ripped me out of my innocence, he destroyed me in the house I grew up, the house that my parents built with love and care, the house that my Dida was murdered in. A few days later I woke up in a strange house. I learnt that they drugged me and shipped me over to Dhaka. The girls at the brothel along with me were shipped over from Bangladesh, Nepal and various parts of India. They told me that I had to make a living and earn money. I had to please the owner and the only way I could keep him happy and steer clear of trouble was to sell my body. And so I did, I sold myself to the young and old. I entertained around 12 to 13 men everyday. One day I woke up and realized that I didn’t want to do this anymore and planned my escape. I slowly started pocketing Rs.50 from every single payment I got so I had enough backup money when I escaped. Unfortunately he found out about my plans because I made a mistake of keeping all the saved up money inside a flower vase in my room and one of the cleaners found the money and returned it to him. I was punished, beaten, bruised and left to starve when he found out. They would burn me with cigarette butts, hot iron rods and beat me with belts. I still have those scars that remind me how everyone took away a piece of me leaving me empty.I was immediately shipped off to Kolkata away from my only friends at the brothel at Dhaka. This time he made me entertain twice the number of clients. I also had to sell drugs from time to time. I was asked to pickpocket and cheat people. I started smoking up to numb myself, I took it as a method to cope up with everything. I found myself high every single day. I would start my day and end it the same way everyday. Broken and intoxicated.

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It was on my Dida’s 4th death anniversary when I finally let myself breakdown and cry. After 3 and a half years of struggling and pushing myself through every single obstacle I was finally free and independent. I felt more like myself. I still had trust issues but I was working on them. Dr.Sara made me realize that not everybody is the same. She is like family to me now. My only family.

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Today, 6 years later I have a degree in sociology. I started out by working under small art and craft businesses and paid for my course fees. I’m happy, independent and free. I’m working towards the welfare of women in the society. I want people to know that women can’t be treated like objects. We are people too and we demand to be respected..

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Note: These are short fiction stories based on an array of real survival stories of women from prostitution all over the world. The author was inspired by these stories, and hopes her stories inspire you.
Read the inspirational real stories here: http://www.equalitynow.org/survivorstories/ayesha