In the tangled lanes of Sonagachi, one of Asia’s largest red-light districts tucked into north Kolkata’s historic grid, an unexpected fight for adhikar (rights) is playing out against the backdrop of India’s looming elections. As the state gears up for the 2026 Assembly polls, a Special Intensive Revision (SIR) of electoral rolls has sparked anxiety among sex workers who fear being ‘erased’ from the voter list because they lack the paperwork most Indians take for granted: birth certificates, proof of ancestry and family details, and stable residential documents.
For decades these women have lived and worked in Sonagachi’s crowded kothis and narrow bylanes, building lives distinct from the formal records of the state. Many were trafficked, abandoned, migrated from other states or even neighbouring countries like Nepal and Bangladesh, and most have little memory or documentation of their parents or original homes. When the SIR process began recently, requiring detailed documentation going back to the 2002 electoral rolls, it triggered what some activists call a wave of bhay (fear) — a fear of being disenfranchised, of losing the hard-won right to be counted as citizens.
Under Indian electoral law, the Election Commission of India (ECI) has the constitutional authority to revise voter lists periodically. This year’s SIR, a nationwide exercise covering several states including West Bengal, was launched to update and purify the rolls. But in places like Sonagachi, where formal records are often patchy or non-existent, the standard criteria have seemed almost impossible to meet.
Eighteen years ago, sex workers in Sonagachi won a significant victory: after sustained advocacy and protest, many were enrolled as voters in 2007 based on cooperative bank passbooks and community documents rather than conventional proofs. That achievement became a benchmark of inclusion — a breakthrough that recognised them not just as workers in the shadows but as citizens with a voice at the ballot box.
Today, however, that hard-earned recognition is under threat. Many residents report that documents once deemed sufficient are no longer recognised under the new SIR requirements. Some women described experiences of their old voter cards being cancelled or invalidated. Others, especially those in brothels known locally as “Nepali Baari” or “Bangladeshi Baari,” have already left Sonagachi in panic, worried they would be singled out or “deported”.
In response to the mounting concerns, the Election Commission has taken an unusual step: setting up special voter registration and assistance camps right in the heart of Sonagachi, staffed with officials who can help residents fill out electoral forms, advise them on alternatives when documents are missing, and guide them through the complexities of the SIR process. More than 800 sex workers have already attended these camps, submitting Form 6 and Form 8 and seeking clarification on how to protect their voter status.
Chief Electoral Officer Manoj Agarwal has personally visited these camps, reassuring residents that no eligible voter will be excluded and that the Commission has special powers to include those who lack conventional proofs. Officials are also working with NGOs and local organisations to verify claims through peer testimony and community records, recognising that many sex workers have long lost touch with their families or have never had formal identity documentation.
Local advocates like the Durbar Mahila Samanwaya Committee — a collective of sex workers that has for decades fought for rights and recognition in Sonagachi — argue that inclusive democracy must account for the jeevan ki haqiqat (realities of life) on the ground. Many residents now hold Aadhaar cards, PAN cards, ration cards, and other forms of ID that confirm their Indian citizenship and local residence. They say these should be sufficient to secure a place on the electoral rolls.
Yet the fear persists. Some women, unable to fill out forms because they do not know their parents’ names or birthplaces, watch uncertainly as the deadline for the draft voter list publication approaches. Others juggle the practical demands of daily survival — earning a living, caring for children — with the urgent need to assert their political rights. For a community long marginalised and often ignored, this election season has become another arena in which to demand not just participation, but recognition and dignity.
Let me tell you something straight from the heart: whenever sex workers fight for their right to vote, the whole idea of democracy in South Asia is put on trial. And in Sonagachi today, that trial is in full session. These women are not asking for charity, sympathy, or rescue fantasies. They’re asking for something far more radical: citizenship that actually works for them.
Because what is the point of chanting about the “world’s largest democracy” when thousands of women can’t even get their names onto a voter list? The politicians love repeating the slogan sab ka saath, sab ka vikas (together with all, development for all), but when it comes to sex workers, suddenly the “sab” becomes very selective. The moment a woman steps into a brothel, the system treats her as if she has stepped out of the nation itself — no address, no parents, no history worth recording. As if stigma erases identity.
And yet these women live some of the most documented lives imaginable: every police round, every health visit, every NGO meeting, every bribe squeezed out of them forms an unofficial archive of survival. But none of that counts when officials demand a birth certificate from 30 years ago or a family link to people who may have abandoned them, trafficked them, or died long before Aadhaar existed. Bureaucrazy, my sisters — not a typo.
But here’s what truly warms Auntie’s spicy heart: the way these women, despite the fear, despite the humiliation of explaining their past to strangers, still show up for voter registration. That act alone is a form of resistance. A sex worker applying for a voter ID is telling the state: “I may not be respectable in your eyes, but I am undeniable in this democracy.”
And the truth is, sex workers understand political accountability better than half the voters in this country. They know exactly who shows up, who disappears, who exploits, who protects, who breaks promises, and who actually delivers. Their vote is informed by lived experience, not by propaganda.
So here’s my message to the officials sweating over their “Special Intensive Revision”: democracy is not a paperwork puzzle; it’s a social contract. And if the women of Sonagachi are fighting to be part of it, you better meet them halfway — without prejudice, without drama, and without pretending their lives are too complicated for your forms.
Because India cannot call itself a democracy while pushing its most marginalised women into the shadows. And these sisters? They are done living in the shadows. They want to vote — and they will.