They said I had a 10% chance of surviving.
That’s the number doctors gave me when I was diagnosed with multidrug-resistant tuberculosis (MDRTB) in 2017. I was 22. For two years, I endured daily injections, experimental drug trials, and months of being bedridden. There were days I couldn’t walk. Nights I thought would be my last. Weeks I questioned whether I’d ever have a future. I lost weight, I lost hair, I almost lost my eyesight. The doctors prepared me for the worst. But what they didn’t prepare me for was surviving—and what to do with the life I was given back.
When you’re staring death in the face, your dreams and priorities shift. I stopped asking, “What do I want to do with my life?” and started asking, “What truly matters?”
And the answer, again and again, was clear: my community, the women who raised me, and the girls who are walking the path I once walked.
I was born in Kamathipura, India’s oldest red-light area. My childhood home was a 100-square-foot loft above a brothel. My neighbors, my family, my friends—everyone was a sex worker. We grew up hearing that God had abandoned us. That we were dirty, impure, and beyond redemption. And we believed it.
However, every brothel had an altar. Small and dusty, but full of devotion. Every morning, my mother lit incense and prayed to Ganesh. “So God will forgive us and give us a better life next time,” she would say.
I didn’t want to wait for my next life. At 16, I moved to Kranti, hoping to escape the shame that haunted our community. I won a scholarship to Bard College in New York, became the first girl from an Indian red-light area to study abroad, was covered by Newsweek and received awards from the UN. I spoke on big stages and in even bigger hotels - the same ones I used to stare at from the brothel window.
Everyone told me I was “making it.” But the truth was, I was falling apart. Shame, trauma, and the deep belief that I was unworthy consumed me. And in those long, painful months of fighting to stay alive, I realized: no amount of success could heal what I was running from.
I returned to India. I walked the same streets of Kamathipura I had once longed to escape. I accompanied my mother, newly diagnosed with HIV, to Ganesh’s temple - the same temple where sex workers had prayed every week for their children’s futures. And I saw it differently this time.
I saw that the God I thought had abandoned us was always here - in the love, strength, and resilience of these women. I saw that the brothels I once fled were not godless; they were sacred. And I realized that my healing, my purpose, and my future were not separate from my past. They were rooted in it.
This is why I came back.
Today, I am Director of Education at Kranti. Our home is no longer in Mumbai. We own a four-story house in Dharamshala, where 30 girls, ages 8-20, are growing, healing, and dreaming. These girls come from red-light areas across India. They carry the same burdens I once did - shame, trauma, fear, stigma. But they also carry immense joy, strength, and untapped potential.
I didn’t come back to “save” them. I came back because they are me. I am them. And after everything I’ve been given, by Kranti, by the world, and by India’s sex workers, I can’t think of anything more important to do with my life than to walk beside them. To guide them, mentor them, love them, and help them believe in their own futures.
I know what it means to feel forgotten. To be told you are worthless. To fight for every ounce of dignity. And I know what it means to rise from that darkness—not because someone “rescued” you, but because someone believed in you.
This is why I came back.
Because leadership doesn’t come from pity or charity. It comes from love, gratitude, and fierce loyalty to the people who made me who I am.
Because when the world gave up on us, we never gave up on each other.
Because God never abandoned us. And we will never abandon each other.
And because when you’re given a second chance at life, you don’t waste it. You return to what truly matters. For me, that choice is clear.
This is my community. These are my sisters. This is my future. And it’s the only future I want. THIS is why I came back.
Reflection Questions:
In moments when your life felt like it was falling apart, what was one thing that helped you return to yourself and your community?
We’d love to hear your thoughts, Shweta will read and respond to every comment!
Returning to my community means finding it. After decades of focus on my nuclear family and career, I can wrap around new friends 😀
You are an inspiration, a light that is forever smiling and shining. It's an absolute privilege to see you lead the program at Kranti and inspire so many girls to achieve their dreams. Thank you very much for making this world a better and kinder place!