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Invisible Girls
- A New Arrival
An initiative at Mumbai Central Station provides a desperately needed safety net for runaway street children
Walking beyond the red-light district in a leafy Mumbai suburb, we climbed the gloomy stairs of a municipal school. Here a single room serves as the headquarters of Saathi Runaway Girls project: a Karuna funded initiative where the ‘invisible child’ is seen and supported.
The word Saathi means ‘friend’ or ‘companion’, and this project extends a hand of friendship at a crucial moment. When a girl steps onto the station platform she has about 20 to 30 minutes before the brothel networks move in. She may be lured away by pimps. Or approached by pavement communities and sold into domestic service. Girls are just swept away; swallowed up. It is therefore on Central Station platforms that Saathi has developed a crucial network – to identify these girls and bring them to safety. It’s a race against time: who can reach the bewildered, often traumatised, girls first – the exploitative networks or Saathi?
- Off the platform and back on the rails:Saathi gives shelter and support to destitute young women
There are many complex reasons why an adolescent girl comes to Mumbai, arriving alone at the Central Station from as far away as Calcutta or Nepal. She might have eloped with a boyfriend who then leaves her; or be hiding an out-of-wedlock pregnancy. She may be running away from physical or emotional abuse at home; she may have a mental illness, be HIV positive, or suffer from tuberculosis. Some are running away from child marriages. A girl may come to Mumbai with the fantasy of realising a Bollywood dream. Others come in search of work.Whatever her reason, if she arrives at the station alone, with no contact address, penniless and under stress, she is highly vulnerable to exploitation.
- Station workers are trained to inform Saathi of new arrivals
Such a girl is easy to identify: she will usually be anxious, often the last off an overnight train, alone and unsure. By contrast the Saathi supporters are familiar with station life. They are porters, chai sellers, ticket collectors and station police – even some of the boys who live on the station. Saathi has educated these people to look out for such girls and make referrals. Saathi has also madeenemies – after all, the pimps have backing. But Saathi and its supporters are here to stay.
At the Saathi HQ there is an office and quiet space for talking intimately with the girls; downstairs a schoolroom is used as a day centre. This is a hive of adolescent activity: someone is preparing food in thecorner and another is drawing; three young mothers are tending their offspring. Some girls are making glass mosaic coasters to sell. A couple of girls are larking around, dancing and looking in a mirror. Others, we hear, have gone out to work, or to further their education, to see the psychiatrist or have a medical check.
We visit the night shelter down the road. The room is freshly painted rose pink. Each girl’s clothes and bedding are neatly bundled on the upper tier. A small kitchen, toilet and bucket for a bathroom, together with backyard to hang washing, complete the shelter. Cramped perhaps, but a safe refuge in a harsh world.
Hasina, aged 20, had nowhere to turn, and found herself alone at night on Mumbai Central Station. She had an arranged marriage three months before both her parents died in an
accident. Within a year she gave birth to a daughter and lived with her family until her husband was sentenced to a Mumbai jail. With no relatives, and unable to afford the rent, Hasina moved in with the woman who helped with child-care. Within days she was harassed by this landlady’s son.She had one address, a woman in Mumbai, so she took the night train
alone with her 15-month daughter. She reached the anticipated refuge only to discover the woman had moved out. ‘She was my only hope.’
Hasina folds and refolds her mauve hankie with orderly precision. She went to the city jail in search of her husband, whom she hasn’t seen for six months. ‘But I had no ration card, no ID; the authorities didn’t believe I was his wife and sent me away.’ A tremulous pause. She wrings her hankie, then composure once again.
By sheer chance she saw her husband being escorted from jail to the courtrooms. ‘I could hardly believe it! There was so much to say, so many questions: when are you coming out?
Do you have any contacts? But I couldn’t speak, I was choked up. He called out to come to the civil court on the 13th. ‘Don’t worry’, he said, and was gone. Still crying, Hasina walked to
Mumbai Central Station to use the toilet.
‘It was getting dark. Hundreds of people were sleeping in the station.’ Among the family groups she spotted one woman on her own, sat down beside her and told her story. ‘I asked if I could spend the night beside her. “You can stay six months if you like.” The woman was a beggar who lives permanently on the station platform. ‘Unlike other beggars, who were quarrelling, she was quiet and looked normal. Later she brought me Chinese food from a stall. It was the first time I’d eaten Chinese. A porter spotted me and came over to talk; in the morning he told the police, who contacted Saathi. I was terrified and didn’t dare close my eyes all night, but the beggar- woman looked after me.’
By morning one of the Saathi staff found Hasina and asked if she’d like to come to a shelter. ‘I’ll come only if you let me meet my husband in the court.’ So Hasina and her daughter came to safety 24 hours after reaching Mumbai.
WHAT’S ON OFFER?
Initially the runaway girls have a safe refuge, nutritious food and the support of people who care. Saathi’s philosophy is to encourage the girls to return home, if possible. But often a girl cannot at first say where she’s come from, or why - it takes time to open up.
She needs to be assessed, as does the situation she has fled. If she’s unable to return to her home, Saathi looks into what she is capable of.
Might she benefit from further education or vocational training? Saathi employs a teacher for those who want to continue their studies. Tailoring is a useful, portable skill. Typing skills are also valuable. Many of these can be arranged through Saathi.
Then there is glass mosaic work, part of an income-generating programme - mosaic coasters and other artefacts for sale in Mumbai boutiques. Many runaway girls gain freedom through such work. Others come for a short while to earn money then return home, such as two girls who fled rigid family conditions in Nepal. They eventually arrived at Saathi, earned 6,000 rupees making placemats, then returned home. But there was no change in their parent’s attitude to becoming independent, so they ran away again. There are further complications - most families assume that to run away to Mumbai and earn good money spells prostitution.
The harsh realities for an Indian girl can be merciless. Saathi is offering substantial help and heart-warmingconnections to thousands of girls.
Saathi staff have a range of backgrounds, religions and qualifications. Though hardly an
obvious career choice for an educated Indian woman, it evidently brings job satisfaction. I was struck by the empathy and dedication of the social workers.
- Seema, an outspoken young Muslim, with Jogesvari, an experienced social worker
Seema is a striking young Muslim woman with keen eyes and fine bone structure. Clearly trying to flout convention, she is outspoken and brusque. Seema’s mother left home when she was three, to marry anotherman. Abandoned, Seema was brought up in various institutions. She was bright and got reasonable grades.
Returning to her father’s household after his re-marriage, Seema was pressurised into the role of domestic worker for her stepmother. By the age of 14 her stepmother wanted to marry Seema to a man of 32.
Seema ran away, disgracing the family - they would only take her back if she agreed to the marriage. Indomitable, she sought shelter with various organisations until she found Saathi, where she was welcomed.
Saathi arranged for her to take a catering course in a five-star hotel, while sleeping in their shelter. Before long she complained of sexual harassment by one of the chefs. ‘I stopped the training and eventually the chef was moved on. It was happening to other girls, but none complained.’ Seema then trained in ‘outdoor sports’, later training others to be trainers - all fixed up through Saathi. ‘I like to work hard, not sit around idle and eating. But I get angry and shout if people annoy me.’
Some girls have painted their lives and hopes on canvas. There are scenes of marriage ceremonies, a house, mother and child, an office with desk - dreams and aspirations. A particularly poignant picture has nothing on it but the background leaf - a life as yet unable to be told, without form or vision. Seema shows me hers - a woman in uniform carrying a child. ‘I dream of being a police officer. Here I am saving a child from fire.’
- Jogesvari: "I dislike routine and enjoy challenges. No two days are the same at Saathi!"
Jogesvari, one of the project psychologists, has been translating Seema’s story. There is a playful jesting between them. As the story unfolds Jogesvari gives Seema clear and firm messages. Jogesvari explains: ‘Seema’s getting older, but she won’t abide by the rules. Often she leaves Saathi, goes dancing with friends then gets into trouble. She takes two steps forward, one back. She comes and goes, yet knows she can return anytime. I make excuses to the others because I understand her energy. She can cry with me or abuse me. She knows I love her. She’ll stay here until she gets economic independence. That’s our goal.’
- Lila, a four-year-old bundle of energy, survived tuberculosis thanks to Saathi
Love, Drugs and Superstition
Throughout our time at Saathi, a laughing, mischievous four-year-old is constantly around us, wanting to play or peer into the camera lens. She is Lila, daughter of tiny Rohini, who was married aged 14 to a drug addict. Their first child died of high fever. Then their second child, Lila, contracted tuberculosis - around which hangs a web of superstition.
‘Go and stay with sheep in a sheep pen and the TB will be cured’, Rohini was told. She did. There was no improvement. Mother and daughter were admitted to a Mumbai hospital where Lila should have been a patient for six months but there was no place after the first 10 days. Meanwhile someone in the hospital knew about Saathi. So Lila was given treatment through Saathi: she just survived. Now this charming child, a bundle of energy, is clearly loved by girls and staff alike. And Rohini has started work in a handmade paper shop.
Rohini’s husband also contracted TB and was given treatment. But after being discharged, he told his wife she was ‘inauspicious’ to the home. Later he came to Saathi and took Rohini and
Lila home. Fights broke out between them. He took her hard earned money and prevented her from working. Rohini therefore left her husband’s place, and returned to her mother’s home. But her mother was too poor to look after them, so Rohini and Lila came again to Saathi. Her husband has since remarried and wants Lila back, but Rohini won’t allow it. ‘She’s the only thing I have.’ Twice or three times he’s taken the child away.
What are Rohini’s options? She could put her daughter in a hostel, but she doesn’t want to. She’d like a room for the two of them, but it’s too costly. Mother and child could go together into an institution, where Rohini could work and live, but she’s reluctant. She wants her independence. So what’s realistic? These are some of the tricky issues faced at Saathi.