Do you know the names they have for us? We aren8217;t human beings8217;

Together they have experienced the loss of family and the loss of shame. Together they have negotiated their way through the underbelly of this prosperous Maharashtrian town, which lies not too far from the Karnataka and Goa borders.

The local Devadasi cult has traditionally fed Sangli8217;s brothels. This, combined with its strategic location, have ensured that its sprawling shanties of the night continue to proliferate today.

The women here have devised ways to deal with all manner of men 8212; criminalised pimps, politicians seeking special sexualfavours after dark, clients who take pleasure in stubbing out cigarettes on a woman8217;s body.

But tougher still is to deal with the social stigma that clings to them like the smell of fish on the folds of a sari. 8220;Do you know the names they have for us? Dandewali, randi, veshya. We are not human beings, with the capacity to feel pain. We are gande log. Dirt,8221; says Bando.

It8217;s an image that has become a self-image. When Bando banters with a local youth, who plans to marry next week, her words indicate how internalised this view has become.

8220;Will you call us for your wedding?8221; she asks. The lad looks away. Bando continues. 8220;No, of course you wouldn8217;t. Only achche-achche log will come for your wedding, right?8221; There is no answer to her question.

The world then is neatly compartmentalised. The achche log like them, and the gande log like us. Sometimes, in summer, when the local taps dry up, these women have to procure water from further afield. It8217;s then that theycome face-to-face with the tidy wives of the town. The pati vratas, as Bando and her friends call them.

8220;Every time we use their taps, those women make a great show of washing them clean,8221; says Bando with a laugh. She8217;s now past caring. The whispered comments, the pointing fingers, the cruel laughter, have lost their sting.

8220;What are these women, anyway? They don8217;t know half as much as we do. They are like the field of one man. My body is my own field, from which I can make my own living,8221; she says.

What8217;s more, the women who ply their trade near Swaroop Talkies have now decided to set up a shop to cater to their own specific needs. It will sell everything from 8220;Colgate-wolgate to bindis8221;.

Says Bando proudly, 8220;Those of us who know how to write, will keep the hisaab. This way, we won8217;t be cheated.8221; Apparently, by the time goods make their way into the 8220;notorious8221; Swaroop Talkies area of the town, their prices double.

Meena Seshu, secretary, Sangram, which has been workingamong Sangli8217;s women in prostitution for the last seven years, feels that if her organisation has been able to instil some sense of self-worth in these women, she would count it as the greatest achievement.

8220;They have not just been stigmatised by society, they have been criminalised. Now with the AIDS scare, the stigma has increased ten-fold,8221; she says. 8220;The glossy manuals on AIDS control refer to them as vectors in the spread of AIDS8217; or the bridge population8217;.8221;

According to Seshu, approaches like these convince people that it is the sex worker that is the problem. 8220;It diverts us from coming up with holistic strategies, involving all sections of society, to combat AIDS. It also criminalises these women further.8221;

Sangram first approached Bando and her friends with a one-point programme: use the condom 8212; it8217;s a question of your life.

Seshu believes that the campaign, by and large, has been successful in Sangli. 8220;When we first came, so many women were going in for abortions. Many had sexuallytransmitted diseases and the general wisdom was that if you took a penicillin shot on the fifth day of menstruation, it would help prevent diseases,8221; she recalls.

Today, there is a sea-change. The rate of abortions has dropped drastically and Seshu believes that there is 8220;hundred per cent condom use with paying customers8221;.

8220;What the country8217;s family planning programme has not been able to achieve in all these years, these women have been able to do. They have actually been successful in convincing their customers to use the Nirodh,8221; explains Seshu. 8220;Responsibility to self is paramount 8212; that is our message to them. We tell them, if you can get away without exchanging bodily fluids, if you can avoid penetration, so much the better.8221;

There is no illusion about the relationship between the women and their clients. It is perceived as work. Most don8217;t even kiss their customers 8212; kisses are generally reserved only for their lovers.

Bando knows all about Aidus8217; and that there is no ilaaj, nocure, for this disease. 8220;Many customers come and tell us that they don8217;t enjoy sex with the condom 8212; maja nahin aata hai. But we explain to them, sometimes in sweet tones, sometimes in strict tones, that it is good for them and good for us.8221;

But there are women furtively waiting for clients in public bus stands in the town, or in isolated wooden structures along the highway that links Kolhapur to Sangli, who are not protected.

According to the Nashik-based Dhruv Mankad, who has been working on health and sexual violence issues, these women are too powerless to negotiate condom use. 8220;This is all the more so because their clients are essentially transient 8212; truck drivers and tourists 8212; who are looking for a quick sexual encounter,8221; he says. Besides, they work in isolation 8212; a dangerous condition for women in prostitution.