In her memoir, a sex traffic activist writes about those who made the most impact on her life

I knew I had to deal with the consequences of my actions. But it stung that my family suffered by association. Maybe being out of sight, out of mind was the solution – that might cut down on the gossiping and baseless rumours. I made up my mind to leave Bangalore. But where would I go?

Back in late 1995, around the time that I had just completed a project for the Centre for Education and Documentation (CED) and was about to join Janodaya, I’d attended a conference organised by the Peace and Justice Forum in Mumbai at the invitation of some Catholic sisters involved in development work in Bangalore. While the conference itself wasn’t of great significance to me, I had met some interesting people, one of whom had been Brother Varghese Theckanath. He was the founder of the People’s Initiative Network (PIN), an organisation which worked in the slums of Hyderabad.

We had ended up chatting, and after learning about my interests, he’d invited me to work with him. It had been over ten months since we’d last spoken. I mulled over it for a while and decided to give it a shot. Going to Hyderabad made sense. I contacted Brother Varghese, asked him if his offer still stood. “Of course,” he replied.

Over the next few days, I quietly made arrangements to leave Bangalore. Only when I was ready to leave did I tell my parents. They voiced no objections. So preoccupied was I in my own misery that I failed to check what they really thought about it. In retrospect, maybe just relief, as the current atmosphere in our closely-knit colony did not feel even close to positive.

It felt like a permanent move and was a big price to pay for my actions. This was the first time I’d faced rejection at home. I could have handled the rejection from my neighbours, from the world. But together, it was all too hard to bear.

It was an important life lesson, and I took it to heart. I knew what it was to be trapped in a situation not of my own making. I knew what it felt like to face the consequences as well.

I’d also learnt what a person in custodial care needs. Jail had taught me that. I knew the processes that stripped away the dignity of a person. The loneliness and the need for belonging that isolation creates. I’d take all these lessons and turn them into cornerstones of my care and protection programmes later.

Importantly, I had also learnt the value of standing up for what you truly believe in and facing the repercussions thereafter. And I’d learnt not to blindly believe in others. I also decided that I wouldn’t ever get involved in any agitation or protest organised by others – any activity, for that matter, that I didn’t fully understand. For years to come, I didn’t participate in any protest organised by others, even as a mark of solidarity for causes that I knew and understood, such was my loss of faith. If I did participate in a protest, I was the organiser, wholly aware of all the stakes involved.

Thirteen days after my release from jail, I left Bangalore. I had one bag. In it were three sets of clothes, a few utensils, two bedsheets and a picture of my favourite deity, Ayyappa, along with two small lamps. That was it, the sum total of my belongings.

I bid my family goodbye at home, asking them to not come to the station. There was both sadness and relief in my parents’ eyes. My siblings didn’t say much. I’m not sure even today what they thought about my departure. As I became more and more engaged in my mission, my interactions with Suku and Sujji had greatly reduced. Sumathi, I barely communicated with her after her marriage.

I boarded a bus to the railway station. Geeta had come to see me off. She looked worried, but I assured her that Brother Varghese would take care of me.

For the next few years, I was a virtual outcast. I was obliged to go to Bangalore every two months – all of us who had been jailed had to appear for the case hearing. This allowed me to see my family. Otherwise, the only news I’d get about them was through my father’s occasional letters. Though I looked forward to seeing them, eager to know what they’d all been up to, I shared little of note in my own letters. I didn’t really want to expose them to my work.

At the court, I’d meet Gayatri and Ranjini – I was truly fond of them – but steadfastly avoided the others. Once the hearing concluded, I’d rush to Safina Plaza near Commercial Street where my dear friends Geeta and Shoba would be waiting. We’d spend hours talking, window shopping and indulging in all kinds of street food. In two days, I’d be back in Hyderabad. Fortunately for me, my modest salary and my frugal lifestyle – helped in great measure by Geeta and Shoba, who took care of my annual requirements for clothes – meant that I could afford the train tickets. In the end, it would take twenty-four court hearings over four years to acquit us all for lack of evidence. But that was all in the future.

Brother Varghese was keen for me to get involved right away. Perhaps he sensed my turmoil and felt that immersing myself in work would help. And rightly so. It was a small team: aside from Brother Varghese, there was Brother Peter, Brother Bal Reddy, Brother Suresh, Anthony, a layman, and the two sisters. In less than an hour, they had pulled me into their planning. That afternoon, there was a convergence meeting with the district collector. Brother Varghese asked me to go with Anthony for the meeting.

This was the first time I was seeing a district collector in person. Bhanwarlal, IAS, had summoned all the district revenue officials and NGOs working in Hyderabad to plan the pulse polio campaign to be held on 6 December. Polio-drop booths were to be set up in locations across the city, and he wanted the NGOs to help monitor them and ensure that the operations went smoothly.

Each NGO stated their preferred booth based on the area they operated in. When the collector asked for volunteers to monitor polio booths in the Old City, I sensed a strange reluctance from all of them. PIN operated in these areas, so I happily volunteered. Anthony did not react at that moment, but I could feel those present do a double take. When we were returning from the meeting, Anthony casually mentioned that Sister Lissy would join me to monitor the polio-drop booths in the Old City, and finally explained the implications.

Now for the context: having landed that very day in Hyderabad, I didn’t know the significance of 6 December for the Old City of Hyderabad, a Muslim-majority area. Four years ago, on that very day, the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya, Uttar Pradesh had been demolished, and the wounds of it were still fresh. The Muslim community observed it as a day of mourning and had declared it as a “black day”. Essentially, I had agreed to visit a sensitive area during a period when the chances of disturbance in law and order were high.

I wasn’t bothered by this information. My logic was simple: I was available to work, and if I stuck to my role, no one would do me any harm. That two-hour meeting had introduced me to the district officials of the Hyderabad Collectorate as well as the NGOs, and I was happy to get involved in work so quickly.

The next day was spent with Anthony, who took me around so I could observe the work that PIN did. He was young, reserved and very committed to his work. He’d also completed his master’s in social work. Anthony, or Tony as I started calling him, was recently married and lived with his wife in the adjacent colony, a slightly better settlement with pucca houses. Tony and I formed a good team. He would take me on his cycle to visit all the slums where PIN had set up some kind of learning centres or bridge schools. He also introduced me to several basti, or slum, leaders. I spoke both Hindi and Telugu, and that helped me quickly connect with people. Ashwaq Bhai was one such leader who warmed up to me instantly.

On 6 December, I went with Sister Lissy to the Old City on her two-wheeler. We visited all the polio booths there. As expected, there was hardly any traffic, and all the shops were closed. I saw the majestic Charminar and all the other beautiful old structures in the area. Perhaps it was the best time to see them, with no crowds barring me from soaking in the grace of the time-worn buildings.

Other than a few instances of stone pelting in the Old City, nothing untoward had happened. Everywhere we went, we were met with friendly eyes.

Our last stop was Boys Town, a sprawling five-acre campus for the most deprived and needy, located in the Old City’s Jahanuma. The Nizam had donated this land to the Montford Brothers to set up an orphanage, school and industrial training institute, and the missionary brothers were doing a great job in managing this institution.

Sister Lissy parked her bike near the gate, and we slowly walked towards the polio booth.

I could see a tall, well-built man in his late thirties looking at us. As we walked towards him, my vision began to blur. Everything went fuzzy. Superimposed on that was an image of this man running towards me with a child on his shoulder. I blinked in surprise and realised I was standing right in front of him. Lissy introduced him to me as Brother Jose Vetticatil, the director of Boys Town.

As soon as we spoke, I felt as if I knew him from before, and by the easy way he interacted with me, I sensed he also felt the same. The connection was instant and felt deep-rooted. Brother Jose accompanied us to the booth. I did my work in a daze. He then invited us for tea, and we followed him to the refectory before getting back.

The entire affair lasted less than thirty minutes, but I knew something profound had occurred. I’d met someone who would be one of the greatest influences on my life.

Excerpted with permission from I Am What I Am: A Memoir, Sunitha Krishnan, Tranquebar/Westland.