The poignant chronicle of three generations of sex workers—Saraju, Malati and Lakshmi—takes us from a village in Bangladesh to a refugee camp in India in the years before the Bangladesh War to the murky alleys of Sonagachi to the posh Salt Lake area in Kolkata. At the heart of this compelling narrative is Lakshmi’s tenacious struggle to lift herself out of the squalor and unpredictability of Sonagachi’s brothels to find power and stability in her life.

Jhimli Mukherjee Pandey’s brilliant debut novel Not Just Another Story is based on the gritty realities of life in Kolkata’s most notorious red-light district.

BOOK EXCERPT:

As a reporter, you’re used to reacting fast. It’s a life of quick responses and short deadlines. And uncertainties abound. You’re never bored, though. The excitement, the clock counting down, your pulse racing as you sprint to the finish line—these are the reasons I continue doing what I do even though it can get hard at times. But there are times when you feel like you’ve hit a wall and wonder whether you should abandon the story. Will you actually prevail or come back empty-handed? At times you end up being lucky, much more than you ever expected. And these can be life-changing experiences.

We had just closed a celebratory edition of the paper—Slumdog Millionaire had swept the Oscars. An Indian story! That was the refrain. There was an air of jubilation in the office. Later that night, just as I was leaving for home, my editor in Delhi called to remind me that this was not the first such story. Many years ago, Kolkata had been in the spotlight when the BAFTAs had been announced. A documentary about Sonagachi, Kolkata’s infamous red-light district, had won critical acclaim, dominating the headlines of the day. Gautam da, my editor, echoed what was already on my mind. I had been thinking of this documentary ever since the news of the huge win for Slumdog had started making the rounds. This was an opportunity for the Kolkata edition of the newspaper to steal the limelight with a breaking human interest story.

‘We should do a follow-up piece on those kids,’ Gautam da said with conviction.

The documentary, Sex Citadel, traced the lives of six children from Sonagachi as they navigated the new world of education. Sonagachi was not new to me. In fact, it was one of my beats and I had been filing offbeat human interest stories from there for over two decades. I had my sources in the redlight area; people who would call to give me information about the goings-on there and those I could call when I was following a story. But this time my mandate was not simple. What my editor wanted me to do was to track down the children who had been in the documentary and do a story on how their lives had changed after that award. I felt a pang of guilt—after having won acclaim for my story around the time of the award, I hadn’t kept in touch with any of the people who were part of the documentary. All those young children would be adults now and it was unlikely they’d speak to me. Gautam da wanted an exclusive, especially with Lakshmi, the oldest of the children; she had stolen everyone’s hearts.

‘It’s not going to be easy,’ I tried to explain. I had, in fact, tried to track down Lakshmi some years back, but had got nowhere.

I knew Gautam da was already seeing the story in the paper.
‘While the rest of the country is still reeling from the success of Slumdog, we can get a fresh angle for our paper,’ his voice brimmed with excitement. I could imagine the veins on his forehead throbbing like they did when he got the scent of a good story.

I didn’t respond with the same enthusiasm and Gautam da got impatient. ‘You did that story earlier, why can’t you go out there and track them down again?’ he barked.

I didn’t want to annoy him further, so I agreed. Gautam da had been like an elder brother to me and was my mentor. Even though he now headed all the newspaper’s editions from Delhi, he was originally from Kolkata. He had taught me the basic tenets of journalism. Even today, he keeps an eye on my stories from Kolkata and carries some of them nationally. I knew he had praised me to his colleagues in Delhi. I couldn’t let him down. Besides, it wasn’t an unjustified demand. I had to try and track down the children.

A couple of days later, I found myself walking down one of the many ribbon-like lanes in the Sonagachi maze. With me was my photographer colleague, Sajal, still groggy from last night’s party at the Press Club. My constant nervous chatter was getting to him. Gautam da had called at five that morning, bursting with excitement, as if the story was on his table and he was designing the page!

Now we were hurrying to meet my contact at Durjoy, an NGO that works with the sex workers of Sonagachi giving them information and assistance on health and legal issues. In case that didn’t work, I would have to try talking to as many people as possible once the women started waking up. I was berating myself for having lost contact with the kids.

‘You’ll go crazy if you try to stay in touch with every person you’ve spoken to for a story over the last twenty-five years,’ Sajal said calmly. But I was in no mood to listen to reason.

‘I have to track her down,’ I said stubbornly.

We negotiated piles of garbage, curled up sleeping dogs, a maze of clotheslines, potholes, and rows of parked cycle rickshaws as we made our way to Durjoy. This NGO has been the source of many of my stories for years. Several missionary societies and social groups in Kolkata and international groups had partnered with Durjoy, but its main overseas partner is the famous Hope for Life, a UK NGO. A regular train of foreign social workers and funds flow to Durjoy from the UK through the year.

The person in charge of Durjoy is Prateek, a young, energetic man, whose mother was a sex worker in Sonagachi. Today Prateek is the point of contact for any outsider trying to enter Sonagachi and I was no exception. But I had an edge over my competitors here. For years I have been trusted with secrets. I had never broken this trust, sometimes even at the cost of losing a sensational story. In times of trouble, I have used my contacts at the Lalbazar city police headquarters to bail sex workers out of tricky situations. These had paid off in the past and I hoped against hope that they would pay off again.

Finally, we reached Durjoy at the end of Aswini Dutta Lane and I rang the doorbell. Prateek answered the door almost immediately.

‘Come right in, ma’am. Come, sir!’ he said.

‘Sorry to bother you so early in the morning, Prateek, but you know how urgent it is today…’ I entered the familiar office room and was grateful for the air-conditioned space. We’d endured the kilometre-long walk after we got off at the Sovabazar Metro Station under the unrelenting sun and humidity. Plonking my heavy bag on an empty chair I sat down and gestured to Sajal to do the same. Prateek had left the room and he came back with a bottle of cold water, two glasses, two steaming cups of tea and some biscuits on a tray. I felt grateful and smiled warmly at him.

Prateek poured two glasses of water and waited for me to catch my breath. He is always affable, something about him soothes and reassures. I began to hope. ‘Thanks, Prateek. Any leads yet? Can you tell me where to find the two older kids?’

‘Please have your tea. I told you, I will help as best as I can,’ Prateek smiled.

‘There you go,’ Sajal said, picking a biscuit from the plate and sitting back in his chair.

I leaned forward. ‘I got in touch with Raju and Kartick. They both live in the US and have agreed to talk to me later today.’

‘That’s right,’ Prateek nodded, ‘and Paresh and Phatik have moved to the UK and are completing their doctorate degrees. The other two still live in the city…’

‘Great! Did you manage to contact them? Where are they? What do they do now?’

‘Hold on, ma’am. It’s not that simple. The two “children” are grown-up women today. Remember their names?’

‘Of course. Lakshmi and Keka…’ I had gone over my notes from that old story late last night.

‘I asked Keka if she would meet you. She refused at first. She didn’t want to remember that briefly hopeful time in her life. But I convinced her that hers was a powerful story.’

‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘Give me her phone number, Prateek.’

He read it out to me as I took it down. Then Prateek paused and seemed to be struggling with his decision. ‘Lakshmi, the centre of everyone’s attention at that time, is no more.’

‘She’s dead? But you said that two of them were still in the  city?’

‘Not dead,’ Prateek said slowly as he stood up and walked to the window, ‘but she’s not Lakshmi any more… It’s a long story and one that she should tell you herself. Since the documentary and the awards, she hasn’t met anyone from the media and has always turned down my requests. You will be the first one to talk to her. She was very reluctant, but when I told her that you’ve been a friend to us and to the women of Sonagachi for over two decades, she agreed to see you. But I don’t know if she’ll agree to give you an interview and definitely no photographs. I’ve given her my word,’ Prateek looked meaningfully at Sajal, who shrugged. ‘This is the only way you can meet her.’

‘She lives in Salt Lake City,’ Prateek said, and paused as I looked up at him in surprise. Salt Lake City was a posh part of Kolkata. The city’s bureaucrats, intellectuals and businessmen lived there. ‘Also, she’s called Anjali now.

I got a strong feeling that there could be a bigger story here. So I agreed—no photographs and I would only print what she’d agree to, if she agreed at all.

Armed with the piece of paper on which Prateek had written down Anjali’s address, I hailed a taxi and headed towards Salt Lake, waving goodbye to Sajal.

From Sonagachi, in the northern part of the city, to Salt Lake, which is in the east, was a long drive, negotiating rush-traffic hour snarls. When the taxi finally pulled up outside the house, I was stunned. It was a lavish three-storey stand-alone bungalow, beautifully designed, complete with a manicured front lawn. Salt Lake is a planned township where most of the houses are designed to stand out. High-rises are not permitted and the locality is dotted with beautiful bungalows. Before settling the taxi fare, I craned my neck out of the window to check that I had reached the right address. As the taxi left, I stood outside the ornate gate for a few moments before walking in. How did a girl born in Sonagachi end up here?

Get the title here.

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