G B Road’s harsh reality: Women juggle motherhood, sex work, and daily abuse

Aashna (name changed) fell into sex work in Delhi’s red-light district after being duped by her ‘lover’. Nitya Choubey, who befriended her, examines the lives and struggles of the women who call the road home.

April 30, 2024. It was around 4.30 pm. The terrace cafe did not have many visitors, possibly owing to the summer heat. I ordered a plate of chicken biryani and a beer, in the hope of making Aashna (name changed), sitting right across the table, feel comfortable. It worked, quite literally. After a few generous gulps of the drink, her body relaxed, and she began to speak.

“As soon as I went into labour, I started consuming large amounts of ghee to ease the delivery. That was my third day inside Lok Nayak Hospital (a government facility). On the fourth day, I gave birth to a girl, and two days later, I was out of the hospital,” said Aashna, a 30-year-old sex worker.

I had met Aashna for the first time only a few months before this lunch date, on August 6, 2023, at a health clinic run by Sewa Bharti on GB Road. Sewa Bharti is the social service wing of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS). The free Sunday clinic operated for a few hours in the morning. 

That afternoon at the terrace cafe, her tale went on with a heroic undertone. “My days inside the hospital were difficult and lonely. Even when I had nobody by my side, I knew I would steer through,” she said, emptying the beer can.

The meeting was short-lived, as Aashna had work. But I knew I would be meeting her soon.

Love trap

Not much is known to me about Aashna’s childhood, except that she hails from Karnataka, somewhere near Mysuru. In her early teens, she eloped from her parents’ house with her ‘so-called’ lover. It turned out to be a trap that landed her inside the biggest red-light area of Delhi — GB Road.

She recalls her early years at GB Road with distaste. Her first supervisor was a middle-aged sex worker who would beat Aashna if she stepped ‘out of bounds’. And Aashna’s daily earnings also went to her. It was only years later that she started to draw scant savings from her earnings.

The first time I met her, Aashna had a baby bump. Vandana, the woman who managed the clinic, was firmly advising Aashna not to abort her child. Aashna nodded disinterestedly and walked back to the eye of the storm — the calm yet gloomy GB Road at noontime. While most women had retired to bed by that time, a handful, like Pema (name changed), waited for customers.

The stout and charming woman noted her age as 35, though she looked much older. On my persistence, we lit a cigarette together.

“Most ladies are addicted to alcohol and gutka. Cigarettes are costly. But I have been smoking for a long time now. I picked up the habit from a regular customer. Smoking helps me bond better with some clients,” she said.

Like Aashna, Pema’s Hindi was fluent. She was born in Arunachal Pradesh and has lived most of her life on GB Road.

Garstin Bastion Road (or GB Road) dates back to Mughal times. Located adjacent to the iconic Ajmeri Gate of the walled city of Shahjahanabad (17th-century Delhi), the road once had five stacked kothas (brothels). Then, the ‘tawaifs’ (courtesans) would perform mujra (a Mughal-era classical dance) for kings and rich zamindars. Things changed when the British annexed the capital city in 1803. After the exile of the last Mughal emperor of Delhi, Bahadur Shah Zafar, the rich patronage of the kothas came crashing down, and courtesans began to be known as ‘prostitutes’. Over time, the five brothels were consolidated by British commissioner Garstin, and the road was named Garstin Bastion Road.

The strategic location of GB Road, right next to Chawri Bazaar, the business hub of North Delhi, attracts many businessmen. So during the daytime, the lane is swarming with customers shopping at hardware stores and machine warehouses. By night, it is controlled by some 70 to 85 brothels, housing anywhere between 2,000 and 5,000 sex trafficking victims, including women and children. A few women are kept in hiding, while others are circulated between cities.

Almost all of the women I met at GB Road quoted their age as around 30. A few had children or were married. On any given day, the more experienced ones earn between Rs 300 to 500 per client. The younger girls are managed by supervisors who receive payment on their behalf. But women of Aashna’s age tend to have more autonomy.

Second pregnancy

After our lunch at the terrace café in Paharganj, Aashna and I began to foster a more cordial friendship. We met again six months later, on November 23, 2024, for our second beer. Aashna’s body had fully recovered postpartum. She had given birth to her second child, a girl, on February 15, 2024.

While scrolling through photographs of her daughter, Aashna’s phone rang. It was a video call from Faizaan, her middle-aged boyfriend, who works as an electrician in Chawri Bazaar. Aashna’s son, also her first child, lives with Faizaan’s family, while the newborn daughter stays with Aashna. She took a couple of minutes to talk to her child and turned the camera to me. I waved at the three-year-old boy.

Both of Aashna’s children were born at Lok Nayak Hospital’s emergency ward, free of cost and in anonymity.

The emergency unit is flooded with patients in critical condition around the clock, arriving for free treatment. It is impossible to manage patients individually. Aashna preferred this because it did not single her out.

Role of quacks 

Dr Ritu Saxena, who supervises the emergency unit of Lok Nayak Hospital at Delhi Gate, has only met sex workers on two occasions: while attending medicolegal cases (MLCs of rape or sexual assault) after a police raid, or during labour pain. “If the woman is fit to willingly abort (within 24 weeks of conception) or deliver her child, we admit her without judgment. First aid often starts before we inquire about the patient’s Aadhaar card,” she says.

Dr Ritu further told me that women working and living inside the brothels of GB Road suffer greatly from anaemia due to meagre nutrition. This leads to complications during pregnancy, sometimes even posing a risk of death. The government hospital is safe, but it does not take up deliveries or abortions of physically unfit women or underage ones without an FIR. At such times, pimps turn to medical quacks, risking the pregnant woman’s life to avoid legal complications.

Health and childcare are a convoluted story. Working from 4 pm till 10 am the next morning, women suffer from lifestyle diseases like diabetes, respiratory diseases like TB due to damp brothel walls, undiagnosed urinary tract infections, and STDs.

When it comes to healthcare options, there are many. Starting with several self-acclaimed Chawri Bazaar physicians operating within a kilometre radius of GB Road. Treatment at such clinics is technically accessible, yet carries a risk of stigma. No male physician agreed to discuss GB Road with me. Eventually, a female physician, Rukhsana Parveen, who holds a BMS degree from Jamia Hamdard University and runs a small clinic in Shahganj, Chawri Bazaar, agreed to speak with me. It is a few minutes’ walk from GB Road. Looking at the limited resources and the size of her clinic, much like several others in the area, abortions or deliveries seemed out of the question.

Rukhsana appeared to know about medical discomfort, particularly of women, yet her interaction with women from GB Road was close to none.

“It was for a case of fever that went out of control that I met a woman from GB Road long back. They don’t come here often, maybe, because of shame. Otherwise, I only charge Rs 50 per sitting — the cheapest here.”

The 50-year-old medical practitioner often referred to the women living at GB Road as “bazaaru”. In her understanding, ‘Umrao Jaan’ “is a reality. No one accepts such a girl back into the home.”

Second in line come the private clinics, which remain out of budget. Third, the medical aid is organised by non-state unions or politically affiliated groups. These aids are few and far between.

One of the most sought-after medical support comes from several NGOs, such as the National AIDS Control Organisation (NACO). Medical volunteers regularly visit sex workers and also build trust with the women. What also helps is the free distribution of condoms by the Delhi State AIDS Control Society and other non-state-funded programs. However, the scope and resources in these cases remain limited.

There are a bunch of other healthcare options women from GB Road are unable to access, like the AAP mohalla (neighbourhood) clinics (renamed Ayushman Arogya Mandirs under the BJP). The purpose of Mohalla clinics is to provide general medical consultations for free. Not only are these government-run health centres not equipped for deliveries or abortions, but they also require an Aadhaar card for admission. In these compact and busy clinics, anonymity is hard to maintain.

There is no targeted state policy on healthcare for women living on GB Road. Ujjawala (a comprehensive scheme for prevention of trafficking and rehabilitation of victims of commercial sexual exploitation) operates at the national level. It, however, does not include GB Road or any other red-light area in the NCR. The last available data, from 2019, notes the rehabilitation of around 5,291 women across India, the number of girls suspected to be present on GB Road alone.

The road also lacks basic childcare support like the Integrated Child Development Service’s (ICDS) Anganwadis (government childcare centres that provide basic nutrition, check-ups, and literacy). The only Urdu-Hindi government school in the area was last operational in the 1990s.

“I was a young volunteer at the school then. Other teachers hesitated to visit GB Road. With no teachers, the number of students diminished. Eventually, the school shut down on the pretext of absenteeism and lack of strength,” said Lalitha Nayak, founder of the Society for Participatory Integrated Development (SPID), an NGO fostering children born on GB Road under the Juvenile Justice Act, 2015.

Abuse and violence

In 2012, SPID was allotted two rooms and a toilet inside the government school building to run a 24×7 hostel. On an average day, the hostel can accommodate around 70 children.

“Why don’t you send your children to Miss Lalitha’s foster care?” I asked Aashna.

“GB Road can never be a place to raise a child,” said Aashna, referring to the unending cycle of violence involving drunk clients, rowdy policemen, and controlling brothel supervisors.

By our third meeting over beers, on January 18, 2025, it had become evident. That day, Aashna met me with a swollen eye and a broken arm. The bruise under her eye was from her boyfriend, Faizaan, while her arm was injured by a drunk client.

“The client pushed me from the bunk bed, and I fell on my shoulder,” she said, referring to the honeycomb-like structure of her brothel. The customer was thrown out, but left her with an injury that cost her Rs 15,000. Still, the emotional pain from Faizaan’s act of domestic abuse ran deeper.

There have been violent scuffles between them in the past, but none as serious as this one. The fight began after Aashna decided to drink with a client and quickly escalated towards domestic violence. The police pushed for an out-of-court settlement, and Aashna, too, preferred this route, except this time an FIR became imperative. After the incident, Faizaan’s family has turned its back on Aashna. However, Faizaan wants to reconcile. 

A birthday party

On February 15, 2025, the whole house glittered with flyers and balloons for Aashna’s daughter’s birthday. She had turned one. It was a small apartment in East Delhi’s Akshardham, with a tiny kitchen and a windowless room. On the guest list was another family I knew nothing about, her mother, and Faizaan. The matter between Aashna and him seems to have taken a backseat today.

Aashna’s 53-year-old mother is aware of her daughter’s profession, but no longer objects to it. After her father, a daily wage labourer, abandoned the family, her mother struggled to make ends meet. So the last time Aashna visited her hometown, her mother chose to come back with her to Delhi.

The party was cosy and loud. I took time to settle in, but Aashna made it easier. Before long, it was time to cut the cake. Then, Aashna leaned towards me and murmured, “Now, you can take pictures!” I pulled out my phone and took a photo of Aashna and Faizaan with their daughter as she cut the birthday cake. The others clapped. In that moment, I understood what Faizaan offered her — dignity in a residential neighbourhood.

Rehabilitation and security

The question that keeps circling back is this: why hasn’t Aashna tried to stop working at GB Road? 

“I ran away with my regular customer, nearly a decade ago. It worked briefly because the relationship soon turned abusive. So I came back,” Aashna told me in our subsequent meetings.

Illiteracy and limited exposure meant she already had few options. On top of that, her Aadhaar card lists GB Road as her address, making it difficult to secure even an auto, let alone a house or a job. Without identity and income proof, such as a PAN card, e-shram card or a birth certificate, she is ineligible for reservations in government jobs and educational institutes. This also cuts her options to get health benefits like free treatment at private hospitals, reserved percentage of IPD beds or financial aid under Delhi Arogya Kosh (DAK). Other government schemes that provide housing at highly subsidised rates, financial aid to single mothers, and the recently launched Delhi Mukhyamantri Mahila Samman Scheme, remain out of reach.

Sex work remains her only source of income. Years of experience have earned Aashna clients, survival tricks, and occasional companionship. But she has to work every day, during pregnancy, through menstruation, with a bone injury and without a break to support herself and three others dependent on her.

A sex worker’s situation would always need holistic rehabilitation: from income and identity to housing and healthcare, to childcare. The current government apparatus has clearly not reached the majority of women. There is also no documented data on the health and demography of women. The little that is known comes from NGOs and personal accounts of medical volunteers.

The dreams and realities of a woman living at GB Road often do not change.

“I don’t know which party will make a difference, but I have voted many times. Inflation and cylinder price hikes haunt me today as they did 10 years ago. My only hope is to educate my son and get out of here,” said Lata (name changed), a resident.